


Harry Potter and the Truth of the Traitor

by sunmoonandstars



Series: Sarcasm and Slytherin [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (have i mentioned i hate tags), (i'm not telling who's the actual bwl yet muahaha), (kind of?), Dark Magic, Dumbledore Bashing, Gray Harry, Gray Harry Potter, Harry Potter but with Logic, Independent Harry, Slytherin Harry, Slytherin Politics, Slytherin!Harry, WBWL, big scope plot starts happening, do i really have to do this again, does this even count as bashing anymore?, i feel like i need a stronger word, lol i tagged the first one as 'potential dumbledore bashing' whoOPS, other ones are tagged mild james potter bashing, snape is less of an asshole than in canon but still an asshole, this fic gets um. more than mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-02-23 22:53:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 106,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13200282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunmoonandstars/pseuds/sunmoonandstars
Summary: It's Harry's third year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and just like the last two, it promises to be anything but restful. House tensions are high, Harry's twin Jules, the darling of Gryffindor, doesn't like Harry any better than before, and on top of all that there's an escaped murderer on the loose who's apparently hell-bent on taking his revenge on both Potter twins.





	1. Accidental Magic

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to my beta, Sear, for her wonderful and invaluable help! I'm happy to discuss any and all HP things in the comments, and I love HP fic recs if anyone knows any that are good :)

_“Bad timing on my strike.”_

_“You’ll get better. It still died, didn’t it? Your venom’s working.”_

_“I need to be faster.”_

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. _“Eriss, you hatched a_ month _ago. You probably shouldn’t even be eating a mouse that size.”_

Eriss, for being a snake, was surprisingly expressive. Or maybe that was just that Harry hadn’t really talked to anyone else in the last month and a half, which resulted in knowing her quite well. Either way, when she lifted her head, he could easily tell she was glaring at him.

 _“Don’t choke this time_ ,” he said innocently.

Alekta _kree_ ed at them both and tore into her own dinner, a pigeon, leaving Eriss to huff at them both before she cracked her jaw open and started working on the juvenile mouse Alekta brought back for her. Harry knew from experience Eriss would spend five or so minutes eating and then sleep for a day or two—she could get very pissy if you woke her up after she’d eaten—so he left her to her business and went back to his reading.

One of the odd things about wizarding literature was the lack of a decent selection of fiction books. Harry figured it had something to do with population sizes. Nonfiction books there were in abundance, but fiction books were either terrible, thinly veiled plagiarism of Muggle books, or moving-picture graphic novels that held his interest for a few days before he got sick of the clichéd dialogue. Harry had gone back to Muggle fiction within two weeks of coming home from school and found, to his delight, that there was a bookstore only a fifteen-minute walk away. He’d written Gringotts, had thirty or so galleons changed to pounds, and spent an entire day there. It was another two days of work to configure his trunk’s library compartment to have a separate storage-and-display section for fiction novels. Between those and the books he periodically ordered from Flourish and Blotts, he had plenty of reading to keep him occupied this summer. He opened the one he’d left out on his desk before his measly dinner and happily escaped back to someone else’s problems. 

Alekta’s irritation distracted him around midnight.

Harry looked up. Several other owls were perched on his windowsill or flying towards it. Most had letters; a few carried packages. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning like an idiot. He had _friends_ who remembered his _birthday_. He’d been writing them all summer but that didn’t make the happiness any less.

 

_Harry,_

_Happy birthday! I know you’re keeping letter writing to a minimum so you don’t irritate your relatives with owls all over the place, but honestly, I wish we could write more. I’ve been reading about wandlore this summer in light of what you and Theo told me about Neville’s wand. My allowance only covered three books and I’ve read them all cover to cover, of course, and it’s actually quite fascinating, I really wish I could order more but I suppose I’ll have to wait until we get back to school and use the Hogwarts library._

Harry laughed. It was so Hermione.

_The point is, Neville really ought to be using a wand that chose him! Some family wands choose a descendant, I read, but it’s fairly rare, and one book hinted it had to do with magical inheritances, but there wasn’t anything else on that subject. I will definitely be researching magical inheritances this year, too. (You should. It may have something to do with why you’re a Parselmouth but no one else in your family is.) Using the wrong wand for too long when your magical core is developing can even cause problems with your magic—make it either harder to call on, because using the wrong wand means you never properly learn how to access your magic, or more volatile. One author seems to suggest the volatility or lack thereof is due to your magical core being semi-sentient, which frankly seems like rather a load of tosh to me, but I suppose it’s not impossible. Stranger things have happened with magic. If you have any books on these subjects, would you be willing to loan them to me?_

_I’ve been over at Neville’s and Blaise’s houses a bit with the others, practicing spellwork and such. It’s a bit frustrating that I can’t do magic at my house, but I’ll manage, I suppose._

Of course she would, Hermione was one of the most gifted students in their entire school, as far as Harry could tell.

_Blaise’s mum’s wedding sounds like it will be terribly exciting. I’ve never seen a wizarding wedding before. My mum and dad were a bit hesitant to let me go, but I showed them the pictures of Casa Zabini and assured them Blaise’s mum has staff around so we won’t be unsupervised. They don’t really understand that wizarding children tend to be more independent._

_Do you know if you’ll be allowed to leave your relatives’ after the wedding?_

_-Hermione_

 

Harry scowled. He didn’t need the reminders that Dumbledore, apparently, thought the wards needed “repairing” so Harry had to spend as much of the summer as possible at Number 4, Privet Drive. He had no plans of going back after the wedding, but he hadn’t put up a fuss about losing two-thirds of his summer. He was twelve—thirteen now, actually—and that meant he had no chance of going toe-to-toe with Dumbledore and James Potter either legally or not.

Yet.

 

_Happy Birthday, Harry!_

_Hope the Muggles are treating you all right. I know you said you were going to scare them with your tricks but—if the Trace picks up on anything, it’d be bad. I mean, I know you know that, but still. Be careful, all right? I don’t want to be stuck with your brother next year. (At least Hermione and the twins make Gryffindor bearable.)_

Harry smirked. Neville didn’t need to worry. A few subtle threats, a few things subtly moving without anyone touching him, and Dudley had quit bothering him entirely. Vernon still hadn’t caught on and Petunia could never disguise the disgust in her eyes when she looked at him, but their truce had held for almost two months. She fed him meager rations; he went for walks and supplemented them with trips to the grocery store; they didn’t try to force chores on him and he stayed out of everyone’s way.

 _Speaking of Hermione—she’s been on me about getting a new wand. Very unsubtly, actually. She wrote me saying “Neville, you really must get a new wand” and proceeded to list all the reasons why. I think I’ve been spending too much time with you Slytherins if I’m actually expecting subtlety from my friends_! _But I guess she made some interesting points… do you really think I ought to get a new one? Gran’s been easier this summer—I tried to channel you and she was shocked the first few times I did something sarcastic, but she actually seems to find it funny—but I don’t know about the wand? She’s so touchy about my dad…_

_See you at Countess Zabini’s wedding! Hermione’s been talking about dueling you for weeks, she thinks she can win since she’s gotten to practice this summer and you haven’t. Oh—Merlin, that was tactless of me—well, whatever, now you know._

_-Neville_

True, Harry’s pleasure at reading his friends’ letters was diminished by the reminder that he couldn’t practice magic… but he’d memorized loads of new spells and from there it wouldn’t be _too_ hard to transfer it to practice. Except charms. He was getting better at charms, but unlike transfiguration and curses, he had a difficult time casting charms the first few times he tried.

 

_Happy birthday from Theo and me—he still refuses to sit down and write letters. He won’t tell me what he got you; let me know when you write back. Especially if it’s interesting. Are you the one who got him started reading Muggle novels? He wouldn’t shut up about them last month, and I finally agreed to try one—I must admit, this Conan Doyle is an admirable writer. I suppose wizards haven’t got as much time to sit around and come up with fictional worlds and people and write about them; there’s too few of us._

_I’m not sure if Daphne wrote you this, but Tracy’s parents are moving—they’re sending her to Ilvermorny in the States from now on. Something to do with her dad’s job._

_So. Before you come to Mum’s wedding… my uncle Matteo is going to take you and Justin out for a day in Venice. Not tourism. There’s a small wizarding community here—not quite on par with Diagon Alley, but some of the wizarding world’s finest tailors. Matteo’s going to make sure the both of you have a full wardrobe with two-year growing charms befitting the heir to a Noble and Ancient house, and a Muggle-born who nonetheless represents one of Muggle Britain’s most successful families. (Hermione looked up the Finch-Fletchleys and I’m highly impressed. His parents may be Muggle but they are exceedingly clever businesspeople. He even told me he suspects his mother would’ve sorted into Slytherin, imagine!) At any rate, I understand they can afford the expense. Matteo’s also going to ensure the both of you know all the manners and etiquette that will be expected of you. I know you think you’ve done quite well with integration, Harry, and you have, for a Muggle-raised wizard who has learned mostly from books, but there’s only so much books can teach you. Don’t argue with me on this. And before you ask, Daphne and her mum are taking Hermione out for a similar trip, except in London before we all leave. Daphne’s parents own a clothing line and I convinced Daphne to outfit Hermione as a gift._

Harry winced. That was as likely to end with Hermione burning all the clothes just to get back at Daphne as it was to be helpful.

_Don’t worry, I warned Daphne to tone down her usual Ice Princess thing and make an effort to be tactful. It’d help if you hinted at Hermione to just shut up and go with it—not that she’s ever shut up and gone with anything in her life, I doubt she really knows how, but if both of them try I think it can result in something other than literal flames._

That elicited a genuine smile. He and Blaise knew each other—and Daphne and Hermione—well. The smile faded quickly, though. Harry _had_ thought he was doing well with managing to appear as a properly wizard-raised child, but Blaise had a point—there were things you couldn’t learn from books. As Harry had no intention of having anything to do with Muggle London aside from bookstores once he no longer had to come back to the Dursleys’ every summer, he supposed it would be a good thing to accept social tutoring from a Zabini.

If this Matteo even was a Zabini. Probably not. Harry suspected a family acquaintance. Matteo must be one of the rare men who could resist Countess Zabini and therefore last long enough to get close enough to the family for Blaise to call him ‘uncle’ and trust him with this task. He just hoped the man wasn’t too hard on Justin.

_Justin’s mum’s agreed to pick you up—he said he’d write you with the details. August 10 th. Be prepared. He told Neville and me last week his parents ranted about your uncle’s nastiness for the whole “car ride” home from the station and hinted Mr. Finch-Fletchley plans to do something dramatic when he comes to get you. _

_-Blaise_

 

The letter left Harry extremely curious about Theo’s gift; he set aside the letters from Daphne, Pansy, Justin, Fred, George, and Ginny, and several other students from his year and the one below in school who he was friendly enough with to exchange birthday well-wishes to open the parcel Blaise’s owl had brought.

Harry’s smile came back, full force. _Maybe you’ll teach the Quidditch boys a thing or two yourself this year_ , Theo had scrawled on the inside of the brown wrapping paper. Harry flipped through the book inside and strongly suspected he would be. These spells were not Light. In fact, he strongly suspected James might turn caught his older son with this. It was darker than anything Harry’d managed to find in the Potter library and _definitely_ darker (and more useful) than anything you could buy at Flourish and Blotts.

He’d heard there was a bookstore down Knockturn Alley that sold much more interesting tomes. Harry really had to try sneaking down there sometime, if he could get away—it wasn’t the sort of place he could afford to get caught, not while he was trying to stay below James’ sight and out of Dumbledore’s crosshairs.

Blaise had sent a silver ring carved with runes that, according to the card, would detect most common poisons in one’s food or drink and heat up to warn the wearer. Harry wondered if it was a long-term thing or if he should be worried about poison in the wedding toast. The others sent a combination of sweets, a specialty broom-care kit as a collective gift from the Weasley children he was on good terms with (Ginny’s note hinted that Evalyn and Natalie had helped out, while the twins’ said it outright; Ginny really was getting to be a good Slytherin), books from Justin, Hermione, and Pansy, and a well-tailored summer robe from Daphne that was accompanied by a vaguely threatening command to wear it while he went shopping with Blaise’s ‘uncle’. Harry snickered at the note—so classically Daphne—and sat down to write replies.

He was halfway done when another owl arrived in an irritated flurry of wings. Alekta shrieked again, which resulted in an enraged bellow from Vernon’s room and a fifteen-minute fight about _that ruddy bird_ wherein Harry deliberately provoked his _uncle_ so the man was too angry to register the gifts and letters hastily and badly hidden under Harry’s desk.

When he finally left, Harry scowled at the new owl. “And who sent you?” he muttered, stroking the bird’s back and offering it a treat before picking up the parcel it had dropped on his desk.

Jules. Of course. If his brother ever managed to do anything on time, Harry would be shocked. The gift included a polite note from Jules, a pair of Quidditch gloves—honestly, did he ever think of anything else? Or notice that Harry couldn’t exactly have gone an entire year on his House team without getting a pair on his own? —and a terse note from James expressing obviously insincere regrets that Harry hadn’t been able to come to the Boy Who Lived’s birthday gala that year. Harry’s scowl deepened. He barely noticed when the Potter owl took off. He’d sent Jules an autographed collection of Seeker drills written by the legendary Brazilian Seeker, Davi Cardoso, and written perfectly warm and polite letters to both his brother and his father, though he nearly ground his molars down to stubs while he did so. _He_ at least had put in an effort.

James’ letter burst into flames.

Harry jumped and put it out hurriedly before the smoke set off the detector in his ceiling. He hadn’t lost control of his magic like that in… a long time.

 _Spend more time on Occlumency exercises tonight_ , he told himself firmly. Trust his infuriatingly Gryffindorish father to manage to break Harry’s self-control, which was excellent for a twelve—thirteen-year-old.

_Thirteen. I’m thirteen now. Only four years left till my majority._

Harry did Occlumency breathing exercises. The Occlumency books he’d managed to get his hands on described a state of meditative calm, in which the emotions were present and could be examined but didn’t affect you, as the next step after you were good at clearing your mind. He’d started attempting that meditative state a week into the summer even though he thought he wasn’t quite ready as a way to distract himself from Dudley’s table manners, which rivaled Ron Weasley’s in their power to turn Harry’s stomach. It was a great way to stay quiet at the dinner table but he couldn’t attain the state with less than forty minutes of meditation yet. Breathing exercises would have to do.

Once he had himself firmly under control again, he shoved the remains of James’ letter behind him with the gloves and Jules’ note, where he didn’t have to look at them, and went back to responding to his acquaintances and his _actual_ friends.

 _“Your family?”_ Eriss said sleepily.

 _“Yes,”_ Harry said.

Eriss slithered over near his feet, and he picked her up to put her on his desk—the juvenile viper didn’t like climbing when she was full. She coiled herself up around the base of his desk lamp. _“Can I bite your brother when I meet him?”_

 _“I’m pretty sure that would land him in the hospital,”_ Harry said, amused.

_“Hospital?”_

_“Where wizards go when they get sick, or hurt. Healers work in hospitals and make you better.”_

This seemed to please her. _“So if I bit him, he’d have to go there to be cared for?”_

_“You’re a Loharian viper. Hanna’s book said your venom’s really dangerous. You’re too small to kill him with one bite… probably. But it would still make him sick.”_

_“I definitely want to bite him.”_

Harry choked on a laugh. Eriss had quite a bloodthirsty streak that reminded him she might be his familiar, but she wasn’t human, and snakes and humans had different ideas about morality and killing. _“If you kill him, I take the blame, and then they’ll kill you.”_

_“Not if I’m sneaky about it.”_

_“He’s my brother, I don’t want him dead. He’s just irritating.”_

_“Snakes don’t care about killing their nest-mates once we’re grown.”_

Harry tickled her head where she liked it, and Eriss leaned into his hand. _“It may have escaped your notice, Eri, but I’m not a snake.”_

 _“I should hope not,”_ she said sleepily. _“Then you wouldn’t be able to warm things up for me to sleep on.”_

A few seconds later, she was obviously asleep again. Harry was careful not to disturb her as he finished off his replies, which included telling Daphne to stay in line, asking Hermione as kindly as he could manage to at least try to listen to Lady Greengrass, and requesting that Justin bring the most impressive car his family owned.

He sent them off with Alekta and yawned. One in the morning. He automatically woke up around six most mornings, but it was his tradition to stay up until midnight so he could watch the clock tick as he turned a year older. An old habit from the days when the only person celebrating his birthday was himself. Maybe he could convince his brain to let him sleep in for once if he stayed up beforehand.

 

Of course, the Dursleys just had to go and ruin Harry’s birthday.

Dudley had his eyes glued to the television when Harry came downstairs at seven-thirty—he’d managed to sleep a full hour past the time Petunia had conditioned him to wake up, which he considered progress—and a newsman was warning about a highly dangerous criminal on the loose. Harry ignored it, as Muggle news didn’t really concern wizards, and helped himself to a piece of toast. Then, with a sly glance at Petunia, who was paying zero attention to him, he slipped another two under his shirt. He’d gotten to keep his trunk this summer, and he could add these to his food stash, which lived in the potions compartment and stayed fresh thanks to top-of-the-line preservation charms. Harry’s trunk contained pretty much his entire life, and he hadn’t spared a knut.

“What’s the sense having a telly in the kitchen if it only shows news?” complained Dudley, who was the reason they had a television in the kitchen at all: he’d come home from Smeltings complaining about the long walk between the living room sofa and the fridge. Harry had sorely wished the Trace was on wands and not on wizards so he could use the ash wand and charm the fridge shut. It was disgusting—both Dudley’s behavior, and how Vernon and Petunia allowed it.

Vernon started ranting about how “these useless layabouts” could only be dealt with by hanging. Harry thought about Occlumency and ate his toast as quickly as he could without Petunia glaring at him for leaving crumbs on the counter.

“—and Marge’s train gets in at ten—”

Harry’s Occlumency shattered. “Aunt Marge?”

“Yes, boy,” Vernon said nastily.

Harry’s heart thumped. The Dursleys already knew about magic. Under the Statue of Secrecy, they were ‘exposed Muggles’—he could talk about magic around them, technically, if not perform it until he was of age, and then under very, _very_ stringent restrictions. Marge wasn’t. Which meant the Trace would be more sensitive in her presence. Which meant he’d have to be ten times as careful, _and_ he wouldn’t be able to shove Petunia’s chair out from under her if she made any nasty comments about him.

“She’ll be here for a week,” Vernon continued. His expression was ugly. “And while we’re on the subject, there’s a few things we need to get straight.”

Dudley managed to tear his eyes away from the telly. Watching Vernon rip into Harry was one of his favorite pastimes. Unfortunately for all of them, Harry had grown teeth in the last few years.

“Like how she’s been tormenting me for years?” Harry said coldly. “Dogs that attack people can legally be euthanized, _Uncle_ Vernon.”

As he’d predicted, the family title made Vernon’s red skin get redder. “You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head while you talk to her.”

“If she does when speaking to me,” Harry agreed pleasantly.

Vernon kept going as if Harry hadn’t said anything. “Marge knows nothing about your—your _abnormality_. There’ll be no _funny business_ while she’s hear or I’ll—report you to that Ministry of yours!”

“As if they’d take the word of a filthy Muggle,” Harry sneered, partly because it was true and even _if_ anyone decided to do something he could always excuse the Dursleys’ lies with _oh, I’m so frightfully sorry, but they—they just treat me so horribly, ma’am, sometimes my magic slips out, I can’t_ help _it, but when they go on about how I’m a freak and my mum was a useless drunk and tell me I don’t get food it’s so hard to control_ , and partly to discourage Vernon from that course of action. This time Vernon had actually struck on a threat that gave Harry pause. Not that Harry’d let him _know_ that.

“And thirdly,” Vernon said, face purpling now, “we’ve told her you’re attending St. Brutus’ Home for Incurably Criminal Boys.”

Under the table, Harry’s fists clenched.

His magic roiled, searching for a target, even as his face stayed perfectly blank. Harry decided right then it was good he didn’t have a wand on him. He might well have cursed Vernon into an unrecognizable lump of goo.

“And you expect me to go along with this charade?” he said. “How about I tell Mrs. Sorrel—” the neighborhood gossip— “about our old school’s inquiries into Dudley’s bullying? I know you bribed someone and they swept it under the rug… but I’m sure she’d enjoy getting to tell the PTA mothers Petunia Dursley’s son was nearly expelled for essentially running a juvenile gang…”

“You’ll say no such thing!” Vernon bellowed, standing up so fast the arms of his chair got stuck on his hips for a second. It clattered to the floor behind him. Harry magically shoved it into the backs of Vernon’s knees so his uncle fell back down into the chair.

Harry grinned unpleasantly. “I certainly won’t, as long as you sign this form.”

He held the Hogsmeade permission form, delivered by owl that morning along with his school books, out to Vernon.

Petunia, who’d been watching the Harry vs Vernon Show with rising horror and fury, snatched the paper. “He’ll do no such thing,” she hissed.

“Legally, you’re still my testamentary guardians,” he said as lazily as he could manage. “I’d forge your signature but they have ways of magically checking if it’s genuine.” He hid the satisfaction that coiled in his stomach at the horror on her face when he used the M word.

Petunia folded the form with jerky movements. “We’ll sign it if you’re on your best behavior while Marge is here,” she said icily. Harry decided cold anger must run in his mother’s side of the family. Definitely James had a hot anger and Jules seemed to have inherited it. Thank Merlin Harry took more after his mother.

The bargain was unpleasant, but he was nearing the edges of the wandless magic he dared use in the summers. Fire and ice were both harder to conjure, and burning anything bigger than a piece of paper was too risky. Moving things and locking and unlocking doors was about as far as Harry was willing to push it. He couldn’t frighten them into signing the form, then. And once the week was up, he’d only have three more days with the Dursleys before Justin and his dad came to get him, and they left for Italy.

He supposed if nothing else it would be a good exercise in self-control.

“Agreed,” he said stiffly. “I’ll play along with the school charade and be polite. _If_ you keep her from physically harming or interfering with me in any way, which includes siccing the dog on me.”

“Fine,” Vernon growled.

Harry smiled at them. “It’s been such a pleasant family breakfast, as always. Thanks for making my birthday _ever_ so enjoyable.”

He stalked out of the room.

 

Dressed in his best Muggle clothes, which wasn’t saying much, Harry responded to Aunt Petunia’s screech for him to come down and greet their guest. At least they weren’t trying to make him act like a bloody house-elf anymore. Vernon had tried to order him to clear the table once. Harry wandlessly smashed the remainder of Petunia’s treacle on Vernon’s head and left the table without a word. None of them had tried since.

“Get the door,” Petunia hissed, shooting him a look full of disgust and fear.

Harry pasted a pleasant expression on his face and hauled the door open.

Marge really resembled nothing so much as Vernon’s badly cross-dressing younger brother. Her face was the same red color and she was just as grotesquely large. She even had a mustache, though not as bushy as Vernon’s. “Where’s Dudders?” she roared. “Where’s my neffy-poo?”

Harry had to choke back a laugh at the sight of Dudley waddling down the hall in his suit with his hair slicked back and a bow tie valiantly supporting his multiple chins. Harry would’ve labeled a photograph of him as “baby walrus stuffed into human clothes and a wig”. Honestly, as he watched them hug, he thought Marge’s hatred and abuse was worth never having to deal with her hugs. Hugs from people he _trusted_ made him cringe. Although Dudley was well-paid for it. Harry saw the crisp twenty-pound note in his cousin’s sweaty hand when he broke away from his aunt.

Petunia and Marge greeted each other while Vernon came the rest of the way inside, hauling Marge’s second suitcase and glowering at Harry, who just smiled back sweetly.

“Tea, Marge?” Vernon said jovially. “And what will Ripper take?”

The bulldog under Marge’s arm twisted around to bare its teeth at Harry. Hidden from Petunia and Vernon by Marge’s bulk, he bared his right back at it and let the damper on his eyes go completely. The dog stopped growing and flinched back.

Huh. He should’ve tried that years ago.

Smirking, Harry followed them down the hallway.

“If you want that permission form, you’ll take these upstairs,” Vernon hissed, shoving both suitcases at Harry.

Harry almost refused on principle of not letting them order him around, but any excuse to stay away from Marge was welcome, so he just started hauling them up to the guest bedroom without a word.

By the time he got back down to the kitchen, Ripper was lapping water in the corner, spraying drool everywhere (Harry almost grinned at the pain on Petunia’s face) and Marge was working on her tea and fruitcake.

“Who’s looking after the other dogs, then?” Vernon said.

Harry slipped into the kitchen and quietly got a teacup and saucer.

“Oh, I’ve got Colonel Fubster watching them. He’s retired now, gives him something to do. But I couldn’t leave Ripper, he pines without me,” Marge boomed.

Ripper whined as Harry sat down, drawing Marge’s attention to him for the first time. “You’re still here, are you?” she said.

With a great deal of effort, Harry kept himself from sneering _obviously_. “Yes.”

“Don’t you say _yes_ with that ungrateful tone,” Marge growled. Harry, who knew his tone had been perfectly neutral, had to fight to keep his expression pleasant. The Gryffindors taunting him as a murderous Heir of Slytherin hadn’t made him lose his temper but his _family_ managed to get under his skin with not even twenty words. Typical. “It’s damn good of Vernon and Petunia to keep you. Wouldn’t have done it myself. You’d have gone straight to an orphanage if you’d been dumped on _my_ doorstep.”

Harry was vividly reminded of what the shade of Tom Riddle had said about an orphanage. It was an unpleasant reminder that he bore some distinct similarities to a Dark Lord, if you were objective about the comparison. Although, frankly, an orphanage would be preferable to living with Marge. He did his best to duck his head and look grateful.

“Don’t you hide your smirk from me,” Marge boomed. “I can see you haven’t improved a bit. I was hoping school would knock some sense into you.” She drained her teacup and wiped her mustache. “Where is it you send him, again?”

Harry was sorely tempted to spit out _Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry_ just to see her face, but the prospect of the Dursleys’ rage while he was so restrained held his tongue. Plus there was the Statute of Secrecy to consider.

“St. Brutus’ Home for Incurably Criminal Boys,” Vernon said. “It’s a first-rate institution for hopeless cases.”

“I see,” Marge said, glowering at Harry. “Do they use the cane at St. Brutus’, boy?”

“Yes,” Harry said promptly. “All the time, I’ve got some bruises still…”

“Excellent! But if you can speak about your beatings so casually, it’s clearly not having the proper _impact_. Vernon, you must write and tell them not to be shy with the cane. Make it clear you approve of the use of extreme force in _this_ one’s case.”

By this point, Harry was gripping his fork so tightly he thought it might bend, and his fruitcake sat untouched because he was afraid if he opened his mouth he’d insult them all.

Petunia, perhaps wanting to avert disaster—she’d always been quicker on the uptake than her husband, who was denser than cement—asked Marge about the escaped prisoner. Harry ate his fruitcake and blended into the wallpaper until he could reasonably (and politely, dammit) ask to be excused.

 

Three days later, he was seriously considering homicide.

His usual you-stay-out-of-our-way-and-we-leave-you-alone truce with Petunia and Vernon didn’t seem to apply to Marge. She wanted him under her eye _all the time_ so she could watch him. That he stayed on perfect behavior the entire time—face bland, tone polite, hair somewhat neater than it had been last summer—seemed only to enrage her more, as did Ripper’s sudden and out-of-character refusal to be anywhere near Harry. Marge made snippy comments about his clothes, gave Dudley expensive presents while glaring at Harry, lamented that child protection laws kept parents from using _appropriate_ levels of force—Harry was pretty sure this was the excuse Vernon and Petunia used to explain why they’d stopped hitting him or letting Marge hit him—compared him to Dudley while singing Dudley’s praises, and when none of that worked, she turned to comments about him as a person.

“You mustn’t blame yourself for the way the boy’s turned out, Vernon,” she said darkly over lunch. “You see it all the time with breeding. If there’s something wrong with the bitch, there’ll be something wrong with the pups.”

Harry’s silverware didn’t falter. His mum—well, he’d never known her, had he? And while he had her to thank for his existence, she’d had the bad sense to marry James Potter, which was not a point in her favor. But he still didn’t like hearing her insulted. James, Marge could go after all she wanted.

“If there’s something rotten on the inside, there’s nothing you can do about it,” Marge finished.

Her wineglass shattered.

“Marge!” Petunia squealed. “Marge, are you all right?”

“Fine, fine, Petunia,” Marge said, mopping herself down with a napkin. “Must have squeezed it too hard, I did the same thing at Colonel Fubster’s just the other week. No need to fuss, Petunia, I have a very firm grip…”

Petunia and Vernon were both looking at Harry suspiciously. He decided he’d better skip dessert and go to his room.

In the hall, he leaned his head on the wall. _Can’t lose control. Can’t get in trouble._

He was not _rotten_. He was not _sick._ He was a _wizard_ and magic was the _opposite_ of being rotten. How _dare_ she—

Breathing hard, Harry stalked upstairs.

 

After that, he combined Occlumency with reciting lists of potions ingredients. He tried hexes the first day—he’d been paging through the book from Theo—but that only left him wanting to try a few of them on the Dursleys. Marge chalked his blank look up to him being “mentally retarded” (his hand went for a wand he wasn’t carrying at that point) and laughed at him.

 _Finally_ , the last day of her stay arrived. Harry kept his head down and his mouth shut. Vernon bored them all by talking the entire way through their dinner about his drill company, Grunnings, and then Petunia brought out coffee and Vernon the brandy.

“Can I tempt you, Marge?” he said.

Marge had already had quite a lot of wine. Her huge face was even more flushed than usual. “Just a smide,” she said. Vernon poured, paused. “A bit more than that… a bit more… that’s the ticket.”

_And you mocked my parents for supposedly being alcoholics…_

Dudley was on his fourth piece of pie. Petunia daintily sipped coffee and eyed Ripper, curled in the corner, with distaste. Vernon drank brandy a little slower than his sister, but not much. Harry really wanted to disappear to his bedroom. One look at Vernon told him he had to sit it out or risk his stupid form. Honestly, was Hogsmeade even worth this?

“Excellent nosh, Petunia,” Marge said, pouring more brandy. “It’s normally just a fry-up for me of an evening, with twelve dogs to look after…” She burped and patted her stomach. “Pardon me. As I was saying… it’s wonderful how you feed us, I always like to see a healthy-sized boy.” This was accompanied by a wink at Dudley. Harry managed not to roll his eyes. “You’ll be a proper-sized man, Dudders, just like your father… Yes, I’ll have a spot more brandy, Vernon—

“Now this one here…”

Marge jerked her head at Harry. He lifted his head and stared blankly back at her and very slowly let a bit of the unnatural green seep back into his eyes. The wandless magic that dulled their color was a constant and nearly unnoticeable reflex after years of using it. Without the damper, his eyes didn’t exactly _glow_ —and most people wouldn’t even be able to peg what it was about him was so unnerving. But there was _something_. He knew this from experience.

Marge scowled at him. “This one’s got a mean, runty look about him. You get that one with dogs. I had Colonel Fubster drown one last year. Ratty little thing it was. Weak. Underbred.”

Harry took steadying breaths. _Powdered spine of lionfish. A stabilizing agent used in many potions with acidic properties._

“It all comes down to blood, as I was saying the other day. Bad blood will out. Now, I’m saying nothing about your family, Petunia, but your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best of families. Then she ran off with a wastrel and here’s the result right in front of us.”

Honestly, Harry couldn’t even get mad about the _wastrel_ part. As far as he could tell, James clung to the Head Auror position thanks to talented underlings and his son’s fame.

“This Potter,” Marge said. “What did you say he did for a living?”

“He didn’t work,” Vernon said, glancing at Harry. “Unemployed.”

“As I expected!” Marge said, while pouring yet more brandy. Harry raised an eyebrow slightly as she knocked it back. “A no-account, good-for-nothing lazy scrounger who ran about imposing himself on decent folk…”

Harry ate another bite of pie.

“Probably a good thing they went and got themselves killed in a car crash,” Marge went on. “Drunk, I expect.”

“It’s amusing that you mock them for being alcoholics while quite inebriated yourself,” Harry said, and remembered one of Blaise’s comebacks. “Does that much hypocrisy leave an aftertaste or is it covered by the brandy?”

“Boy!” Vernon snarled. Petunia’s face was white.

“You nasty little shit!” Marge said, outraged. “Your parents left you to be a burden on your decent hardworking relatives—exactly what we all would’ve expected.”

When this failed to get a rise out of Harry, she leered at him. “And of course—look at you, no better than they were! Three years at that school Vernon found and you still sit there sullen and ungrateful as you please! Probably can’t comprehend what I’m saying, can you, boy, you’re such a nasty, thick little freak—I’ve heard all about those nasty things you did to Dudders growing up—”

Harry’s anger had woken at last and it ran cold and heavy through his veins. He dropped the rest of the damper on his eyes and looked at Marge consideringly, not even hearing her words as she kept right on ranting about him.

Then he let his magic go.

 _Technically_ , it was accidental magic. _Technically_ , it was within the bounds of the Statue of Secrecy—at least within the clauses that would keep him from getting expelled, as he didn’t have a wand and memory would prove he’d been provoked. _Technically_ , he hadn’t been trying to do anything specific with his magic.

But in practice—well. In practice, he was thinking of a certain curse he’d seen.

Marge stopped midsentence.

Her little eyes started to bug out. She seemed to be swelling with anger, but the swelling didn’t stop. Fury turned to fear and then panic in her expression and Harry drank it all in without moving an inch. Her face stretched, her eyes bulged, her mouth grew too wide for speech—then several buttons popped loose from her tweed jacket and rebounded off the walls—she was inflating like a monstrous balloon, fingers turning into salamis, stomach tearing the seams of her slacks—

The ice had taken over nearly Harry’s entire body now. He didn’t feel anything other than cold rage.

Her body began to rise off the chair. He raised one eyebrow. That was unexpected. Seemed his magic had actually gone off on its own a bit.

“MARGE!” Vernon and Petunia screamed, lunging for her—they were too slow. Marge bumped into the ceiling and shrieked again as she bounced slightly. Harry leaned back in his seat. Vernon grabbed her ankle and tried to drag her down again; he was lifted clean off the floor himself.

Petunia turned on Harry with fury and terror in her eyes.

With precise movements, he ate the last three bites of his pie while Vernon tried to drag Marge down from the ceiling. Then Harry looked up, smiled politely at Petunia, and walked out of the room.

 He made it upstairs before the first bellow of _“BOY!”_

 _“What’s going on?”_ Eriss demanded, popping out from her preferred hiding place near the radiator. “ _I felt your magic.”_

 _“We’re leaving,”_ Harry said grimly. _“I’ve had enough of this place._ ” He started throwing his things in his trunk.

_“Finally.”_

Harry looked at her, still jamming things into his trunk. He could organize them later.

_“What? They’re not nice to you. I don’t like seeing you unhappy. Can I bite any of them before we go?”_

_“No, I’m in enough trouble as it is without one of them dying. Besides, they’d probably taste nasty.”_

_“I don’t have to_ lick _them, I don’t taste things with my fangs.”_

_“But you’d have a bit of them in your mouth.”_

Eriss considered this. _“True. Okay, no biting. Did you magic them, at least?”_

_“I blew up Marge.”_

_“Oh good.”_

Harry found himself smiling, impossibly, as she wound up his arm and curled around his waist beneath Dudley’s saggy clothes. She liked riding there, he’d found, and often went with him on his walks or trips to the bookstore, hiding warm and close to his skin.

Harry checked around his room and then in his trunk one last time.

His holly wand sat in his holster, on top of the Slytherin team Nimbus 2001 and his broom-cleaning kit.

It didn’t even take a second to make the decision. Harry pulled out the holster and held it to his arm; the straps did themselves and the sensation of it magically faded away.

He slammed the trunk closed, shrunk it, put it in his gray pack, threw the pack over his shoulder, and shoved the door open. 

Vernon stood at the top of the stairs, trouser leg in tatters. Ripper, probably. “BOY! GET BACK DOWN THERE AND PUT HER RIGHT!”

_“I changed my mind, I still want to bite him.”_

“She got what she deserved,” Harry said, laying a hand over Eriss’ head through his shirt. “If you’re smart, you’ll get out of my way.”

“YOU WILL NOT ORDER ME ABOUT IN MY OWN HOME!”

Petunia appeared, face white with rage. “How _dare_ you,” she hissed. “Working your—your _freakishness_ in our _normal_ house—you’ve contaminated this entire place after we took you in, gave you a _home_ —”

“This is not my home,” Harry said. He was never coming back here. Never. He shouldn’t have had to come back in the first place, he didn’t give a _damn_ about the wards—as if this was any better than the centuries-old wards around Potter Manor anyway. “This has _never_ been my home. You’ve made sure of that since I was one year old. Now for the last time, _get out of my way.”_

Vernon took a threatening step forward, face purple.

With a _bang_ , he hurtled backwards, tipped over the railing, and fell to the front hall. He landed with a thud and a groan.

Eriss hissed a laugh too quiet for anyone but Harry to hear.

Dudley let out a squealing scream from somewhere downstairs.

Harry walked forward.

Petunia took a trembling step to one side. She seemed speechless.

Harry went down the stairs. He paused by the front door. Vernon was moving; his massive body seemed to have cushioned him somewhat, at least from a head injury. He was conscious enough to let out a bellow of pain. Anyone who could yell that loudly didn’t have a punctured lung, so Harry put it out of his mind, opened the door, and left Privet Drive for the last time.

If he had to, he’d hop a broom to Italy next summer and hole up in Blaise’s house for three months.

He was not coming back.


	2. Past and Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: the character previously known as Thomas Jones, James’ lawyer friend, has been renamed Ethan Thorne. He will be playing a more significant role in books 4 and 5 than he has so far, but the name change happened as I was writing TotT. Partly ‘Ethan Thorne’ is just a way better name and also I had too many Thomases. Thomas Jones, Thomas Riddle, and Dean Thomas. Nope.
> 
> A/N 2: I had a commenter get slightly unnerved by Marge's appearance/words/insults/explosion. The books do get darker from year 3 or 4 onward. Until further notice I am sticking to canon-typical violence and insults; much of the Marge scene was lifted right from the book and modified slightly for my writing style and my Harry's reactions (which as i'm sure everyone noticed are different from canon lol). You can safely assume that if something freaked out out in the original books it will do so in my fic, otherwise you should be fine. This is the only warning I'm going to post unless/until my writing gets darker than JKR's and I diverge more from canon tone and plot.
> 
> A/N 3: For anyone reading this now: Ethan Thorne was formerly known as Thomas Jones, the Potter lawyer. He is a Gryffindor who graduated a few years after James and befriended him when James contracted the firm he worked for after the last war. I posted an A/N in Den of Snakes regarding the name change--I've gone back and changed it in all earlier instances--but here again is the explanation for reader's who've been around since before the change: I had too many Thomases (Thomas Riddle, Thomas Jones, Dean Thomas) and also I just love the name Ethan Thorne as well. Apologies to anyone who hasn't seen this, and gratitude to the commenter who asked about it and brought the oversight to my attention :)

Harry got two blocks away before his anger began to thaw.

He sat on a low garden wall, thinking, rolling his wand absently between his fingers. (When had he drawn it?)

It was definitely one of the tougher fixes he’d been in. Harry knew he could get to the Leaky Cauldron fairly easily. The Knight Bus conductor would be too thick to recognize him as long as he was careful to avoid Jules’ swaggering behavior. But once he got to the inn, he’d be on the radar—he had to carefully consider, before he got there, what to do.

 _“What are you going to do?”_ Eriss stuck her head out from under his collar and wound comfortingly around his neck.

“ _The Ministry can’t just track me down.”_ Harry had read a bit about tracking magic the previous year in case he needed to bolt during the summer, and he knew proper tracking spells required a rune-based ritual and a bit of the person you were looking for. He’d been careful to clean out his hairbrush and incinerate the hair since then, and burn all his nail clippings. Not to mention such things were legally very questionable. So he was safe as long as he stayed in Muggle London. His Gringotts bag would give him pound notes and he could shrink his trunk without activating the Trace, since the magic was a part of it and only activated by a wand-tap.

_“I can disappear into Muggle London if I need to, but only as a last resort. If I get expelled and they want to punish me more. I think I can get out of expulsion and I’m more or less certain I can avoid worse charges.”_

_“It is good to have a backup option,_ ” Eriss agreed.

Harry’s instincts prickled at the same time as his familiar retreated beneath his clothes. _“Something’s watching us.”_

He looked up sharply and scanned his environment, wand at the ready and _gardus_ hovering on his lips. It wouldn’t block anything other than a basic jinx and most low-power charms, but he still lacked the core strength for a proper _protego_ —

Eyes gleamed. Harry shifted into a defensive crouch instantly and trained his wand on the figure.

A dog. It was just a dog. A big one, true, and pretty frightening if he was being honest—but Harry didn’t see anything malicious in its body language.

 _“It smells weird,”_ Eriss hissed. _“And hungry.”_

He did see, in the light of a nearby streetlight, that its ribs stood out starkly beneath its manky fur.

He dropped his wand. “Hey, boy,” he said quietly. “Or girl.”

The dog stepped forward cautiously, eyeing him. More specifically, his wand.

“No, you can’t play with it,” Harry said, sitting down again so he’d be less threatening. “This is a wand, see? It’s special. I can find another stick if you want to play…”

Harry waggled his wand aimlessly. It was pointed away from them, but the dog still flinched. Harry’s heart contracted painfully. He wondered what it said about him that he apparently empathized easier with animals than with other people. This dog had clearly been starved, and physically beaten too at some point if its reaction to the moving wand was any indication. Harry tucked his wand away.

“Want some food?” he said softly, pulling out his trunk and growing it to normal size.

_“Why are you feeding it?”_

_“Because I’ve gone hungry before.”_

_“Okay…”_ Eriss, he could tell, wasn’t fond of this. She got along fine with Alekta, who was a wizard's owl and clever and knew better than to eat her wizard's familiar. Alekta even brought Eriss mice a few times. Eriss ate them even though she got offended when people brought her food, said it took the fun out of hunting. 

The dog’s ears pricked, and it slunk a little closer.

Harry opened the trunk to the potions section and found his food stash, a set of neatly wrapped parcels in one of the larger compartments that were designed for potions ingredients, and pulled out half a meat pie he’d gotten at the grocery store three weeks ago and saved half of. He pulled the wrapping off and put it on the ground. “Here you go,” he said, sliding it toward the dog.

Keeping a wary eye on him, the dog ate in the manner of a creature that hasn’t eaten enough in a good long time.

 _“It looks hungry,”_ Eriss said. _“Maybe feeding it was a good idea.”_

_“Maybe if I talk to it, it’ll relax.”_

_“Can you speak dog?”_

_“No, but I read somewhere dogs like the sound of people’s voices, if it’s a nice person.”_

_“You’re still mine.”_

_“Of course,”_ he agreed, rubbing her tail where it draped across his chest.

 “I know that feeling,” he told the dog. “Being hungry. I wonder who did this to you. I’d like to hex them… except I’m already on thin ice at the moment, I kind of… accidentally on purpose blew up uncle’s sister for making fun of me… and I think I’m in legal trouble.”

The dog was finished with the meat pie and watching Harry intently. He slowly reached out, let it sniff his hand, and very cautiously moved to rub one of its ears. The dog leaned into his touch just slightly but didn’t relax. Harry couldn’t blame it.

“I think I can talk my way out, though,” he said. “I’d better. My dad doesn’t like me. He’ll take any chance he’s got to disinherit me, I think. Too bad for him I’m quite good at talking my way out of things; being in Slytherin helps with that…”

The dog sneezed.

Eriss flinched. _“Ew.”_

Harry laughed. It sat slowly down. He went back to scratching the ear; it had seemed to like that.

 They sat in silence for a little while.

With a sigh, Harry shifted and sat up straighter. The dog did, too, clearly picking up on the quiet moment being over. “I’ve got to get going,” Harry said. “I hope you find a family who’ll treat you right. Merlin knows I’m still looking for one.”

Then he paused. The dog was half-starved, but once given some regular food and a bath—Harry sniffed his hand and winced, _definitely_ a bath, with lots of shampoo—it looked like it would clean up nicely. And he could earn its loyalty as easily as Dumbledore could have, or Snape, or pretty much any of the adults at Hogwarts his first year, if only they’d treated him decently and looked out for him and gotten him to trust them—but they’d left him to his own devices, so now he didn’t trust any of them and probably never would. Or _could._ Harry had been wondering lately if he was even capable of real trust at this point. But the dog might not be past that point. And no one had helped Harry when he was in dire straits… he could try to help the dog instead.

“Actually,” he said, “you could come with me…”

_“What!”_

_“Eriss, calm down, it’s starving. You get along fine with Alekta.”_

Eriss huffed. _“Only because it so clearly needs a wizard.”_

“Hogwarts doesn’t let us bring anything other than a cat, rat, or toad,” Harry kept on, since his voice seemed to comfort the dog. “But I bet I could talk them into it. Say I adopted you, and I’d just feel so _horrible_ if I couldn’t keep you around… If nothing else, I think I know a woman who could keep you, the Weasleys are great and the parents at least love me, probably helps I saved their daughter’s life last year… I mean, Jules helped—actually he killed the basilisk, what a bloody _hero_ —point is, she’d take you, and she’d love to feed you every day.”

The dog whined.

“Come on,” Harry said coaxingly. He’d pay extra to get them both on the Knight Bus if he had to. “I’ve never had a dog, but I promise I’ll be better than whoever had you before…”

With a quiet bark, the dog took off running and disappeared in seconds.

Harry stood up with a sigh. _“So much for that.”_

_“It smelled funny anyway.”_

He picked up his trunk and readied himself. _“Bad? Sick? Dirty?”_

_“No… just funny. Not just the hunger.”_

_“Huh. Okay—I’m about to call the Knight Bus—remember what we talked about?”_

Eriss sighed. _“I have to stay hidden and we can’t talk when other people are around.”_

 _“Right.”_ He stroked her head and lifted her chin so her dark eyes looked at his. _“I don’t like it, and maybe someday you won’t have to hide, but they’ll try to take you away—they’ll shun me for this. People don’t like Speakers. They think it makes me Dark.”_

  _“Your skin’s a little darker than your aunt’s,”_ she offered. _“Still not very dark-colored, more of a medium brown…”_

Harry snickered. _“That’s from my dad. His mum was from a region called Southeast Asia. I meant Dark as in a user of Dark magic.”_

_“What does Dark magic smell like? I’ve only ever smelled yours. I only started picking up on it a few weeks ago. Your trunk smells like magic, too, but bland.”_

_“I don’t know. Humans can’t smell magic. I’ll track down something Dark sometime and let you have a go, how’s that sound?”_

Eriss considered. _“Interesting. And people think this Dark magic is bad? Why?”_

 _“Some of it disfigures your body or soul.”_ Harry shrugged. _“And some of it’s just dangerous, and powerful, so they say it’s Dark as an excuse to control it, and people think it’s inherently evil or bad. Which is honestly rather stupid. What matters is how you use spells, not what they do._ ”

He paused. Well then. Slytherin appeared to have affected his opinions more than he’d thought.

_“So I have to hide now.”_

_“Sorry.”_

_“Can I go in your trunk? With the clothes, if you make them warm for me?”_

Harry laughed. _“Of course.”_ Eriss slept a _lot_ —apparently vipers from her part of Africa tended to be fairly lethargic, especially in the cold—and her favorite place to sleep was in a pile of worn-once cotton T-shirts that smelled like Harry and had a wandless warming charm on them. He got her set up, locked his trunk again, shrunk it, and raised his wand.

The Knight Bus appeared with a _bang_ and a blaze of light.

Stan Shunpike popped out of the door. “’Ere, I recognize you,” he said, squinting at Harry, and Harry had a nasty jolt— “You rode the bus last year on the way to ‘ogwarts!”

“Er—yeah,” Harry said, letting Stan hold the door for him.

“Woss your name?” Stan said. “An’ where you goin’?”

“Seamus. Finnegan. Seamus Finnegan. The Leaky Cauldron, please.” Harry wanted to kick himself—he was usually a much better liar than this—but Stan didn’t seem to notice anything odd.

Harry climbed onto the bus and passed over the eleven sickles. It was much less crowded at night at the end of July than midday on September first. He was able to claim a seat—well, a bed, really—near the front of the bus, where he could keep track of people getting off and on.

“This is our driver, Ernie Prang,” said Stan, who seemed bored and willing to talk to anyone. “This’s Seamus Finnegan, Ern.”

Ernie nodded at Harry, who sat down on his chosen bed and grabbed a railing.

“Take ‘er away, Ern,” Stan said.

The bus _banged_ again. Harry looked out the window. They were bowling down a completely different road.

“Somewhere in Wales,” Stan said.

“Best go wake up Madam Marsh, Stan,” Ernie said. “We’ll be in Abergavenny in a minute.”

Stan set off towards the back of the bus. Harry braced himself.

Ernie slammed his foot onto the brake, and the bus screeched to a halt outside a small house with yellow light wavering in the windows. Stan reappeared, leading a faintly greenish witch with a handkerchief over her mouth.

“Here ye go,” Stan said happily; she tottered down off the steps, Stan threw her bag out after her, and the bus was off again.

Honestly, why people rode this thing instead of Floo, Harry had no idea.

He wondered if Eriss could feel the jolting or if the inside of his trunk or if the layers of spells on it kept her from being disturbed. He’d have to ask later—and he careful opening it in case the movement _was_ keeping her awake, because she was cranky when she didn’t get to sleep. Harry knew he definitely wouldn’t be sleeping. He was too keyed up still, and even if leftover adrenaline hadn’t been pumping through him, the Knight Bus was not an environment conducive to sleep.

Stan chattered for a bit, then pulled out a newspaper and started reading.

Harry squinted at the cover. A half-starved man with greasy, lank black hair and sunken cheeks glared sullenly at him from the front page.

“Who’s that?” he said, pointing.

“Who? Oh yeah, Sirius Black,” Stan said, clearly eager to share gossip. “‘e escaped Azkaban, where’ve you been, Seamus?”

Harry’s stomach lurched. He’d done his homework—he knew his family history—knew Sirius Black betrayed his family to Voldemort and got his mum killed. “Can I read it?”

“Sure. Outta read the papers more, Seamus.”

Harry kept himself from snapping at Stan that he _couldn’t_ subscribe to the Prophet or his uncle might actually buy a pellet gun and try to shoot Alekta. “Thanks.”

There was nothing urgent in the article he didn’t already know. Although it was interesting that Fudge had a line of communication with the Prime Minister; Harry hadn’t known that. He snickered at the Prophet’s definition of a gun and handed the paper back.

“Scary lookin’ fing, inee?” Stan said.

“I imagine Azkaban could make anyone look rather frightening,” Harry said absently. Sirius Black, escaped. His parents’ betrayer. As Theo had pointed out last year, there was a difference between being an attack that came from an enemy and one that came from a trusted friend. They probably ought to have killed Black instead of chucking him in prison.

Looked like he’d be doing some more research here shortly.

Harry lay back on his feather bed, closed his eyes, and worked on Occlumency. He didn’t get to his proper state of meditation, even with an hour of work; the bus was too noisy and distracting, but he could at least keep his mind calm and empty amidst the chaos, which was improvement. Plus it helped the time pass without him stewing over Black or legal issues.

Finally, Stan said something about London, and Harry brought himself back to the present and sat up. “My stop?” he said.

“Sure thing, Seamus,” Stan said.

Harry said a curt goodbye to both of them and stepped out of the bus, which took off with another _bang._ Feeling a bit of déjà vu, he headed for the door of the Leaky Cauldron.

“There you are.”

He turned his leap of fear into a defensive stance, wand already out.

“No need for that, Potter, get yourself together.”

To his eternal shock, Spencer Wright of all people stepped out of the Leaky. He looked cold, exhausted, and irritable. “You have given _everyone_ fits in the last hour,” he said, grabbing Harry’s shoulder and steering him inside. Harry, still stunned, let himself be steered, not even reacting to someone putting a hand on him like he usually would have. “And of course no one important was going to come after you, so they relegated it to the youngest person in the Minister’s office. Typical. Sit down. Tom, grab us some butterbeer, would you?”

“Er,” Harry said intelligently. “You work in the Minister’s office, why are they sending _you_ after a delinquent case?”

Wright smirked and paid the barman, Old Tom, for the drinks that floated over to their table. Harry took a sip and relished the warmth. “See, they’re in a right state. Between you and me—it’d be horrific bad press if the Boy Who Lived’s war hero father turned out to have abandoned his Heir with a set of some of the nastiest Muggles to ever Muggle, now wouldn’t it? Don’t look at me like that, everyone in Slytherin with a set of eyes could see you were underfed and wicked tense when you showed up, we know the signs. Our House gets more than our fair share from bad childhoods.”

“Ah,” Harry said, relieved and uncomfortable at the same time. “They’re covering it up.”

“There’s a team of Obliviators and Spellbreakers at your house as we speak.” Wright drained the last of his butterbeer. “Minister Fudge is not happy, let me tell you, but be glad it went this way. Your father’s lawyer friend, Ethan Thorne? Yeah, he wanted to spin it as you being the delinquent evil bigoted Slytherin who hexed the Muggles for the fun of it. You ought to thank Rufus Scrimgeour for shutting that down at some point.”

“Please convey my gratitude to him, next time you see him,” Harry said, even though he had no idea who Scrimgeour was.

Wright grinned. “I will.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose this has nothing to do with Sirius Black being on the loose?”

“Nothing,” Wright said innocently. “Nothing at all to do with the Ministry being terrified he’ll kill you while you’re vulnerable on the streets away from your Muggle home, thus resulting in even greater public outcry that a Potter died because the Ministry can’t do their jobs.”

“Right,” Harry said. He’d forgotten how refreshing it was to talk to a fellow Slytherin. “Does the Ministry’s concern for my well-being extend to criminal charges?”

“Indeed it does,” Wright said. “They’re all convinced it was accidental magic, anyway, so it’s not technically a cover-up, just normal procedure for Muggle-borns who lash out in front of non-exposed Muggles.”

Harry peered at him. “ _They're_ all convinced?”

Wright grinned. “I’ve seen you work magic, Potter. You’re skilled. I’m not convinced you can’t, oh, _guide_ your magical outbursts when you’re angry enough… but of course, no one would listen to a junior undersecretary even if he cared enough to say anything, so what does it matter?”

“Very little,” Harry agreed, smirking.

“I hear you’re invited to the Zabinis’ this month. Old Tom says room eleven’s free; you can stay here in the interim,” Wright said. “Or somewhere else. Frankly, I don’t care. Just try to stay in wizarding London, all right?”

“As if I’d want to leave it,” Harry said with feeling.

Wright snorted. “Good to see you, Potter. Oh, and keep up the good flying this year.”

He almost clapped Harry on the shoulder, stopped himself halfway through the motion and settled on a nod (for which Harry was grateful), and swept out the door.

Harry drank the rest of his butterbeer and let Tom settle him into his room in the Leaky Cauldron. He was exhausted and numb with relief, and about the only thing that penetrated the fog was pleasant surprise at finding Alekta already in his room. He locked the door, dug Eriss out of his trunk, and lay down with her coiled loosely on his back beneath the blankets.

In minutes, he was asleep.

 

The next morning, he wrote a set of letters, sent them off with Alekta, walked to Flourish and Blotts, and spent rather a load of money on books. Four of them covered, in detail, the history of the War of You-Know-Who, as it was called, its end, and its aftermath. He couldn’t go explore Knockturn, not with the Ministry keeping an eye on his movements and Ethan Thorne apparently waiting for an opportunity to pounce. He _could_ do some research and find out exactly what made Sirius Black tick.

Know thine enemy.

 

_Perfect opportunity._

Harry crept up behind Pansy, holding a finger to his lips with a smirk when Theo and Blaise, sitting across from her, noticed him. They pretended nothing was out of the ordinary. He waited until he was close and dropped his hands heavily onto her shoulders.

Pansy shrieked and jumped. “Harry!”

Grinning, he pulled out a chair and sat next to her. “Miss me?”

“No,” she said, scowling at him.

He laid a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

“Good, you deserve it.”

“I do _not_.”

“So, Harry,” Theo said, leaning forward. “Your letter was a bit short on details.”

“I had to write it all out seven times,” Harry said.

Theo nodded. “I forgive you, but now you need to spill.”

Harry checked his watch. “Can we wait until the others get here?”

“Why must you torment me so?” Blaise said dramatically.

Harry smirked. “Because you deserve it.”

“In the meantime,” Pansy said, lowering her voice, “you’ve all read the papers, right?”

“About Black,” Harry said.

She nodded.

Theo’s expression crept a little towards studied boredom—his usual defense. Harry should probably tell him that was as much a giveaway that he was uncomfortable as actually showing his discomfort.

“I wonder how he did it,” Blaise said. “No one’s ever broken out of Azkaban before.”

“They say the Dark Lord taught him loads of Dark magic,” Pansy said. “That he was to be second in command.”

Harry had meant to keep his—questions—to himself. It could wait until after the wedding. He didn’t want to ruin anyone’s summer. But if they gave him an opening this perfect—

“Hey, guys!”

Justin dropped into a seat at Harry’s right, and the moment was lost.

“Justin, hi,” Harry said. Blaise nodded briefly.

“Everyone got their school books?” Justin said. “I flipped through the Defense text for this year. It looks like we’re going to be working on magical creatures that pose threats. Should be interesting.”

“The Care of Magical Creatures book is a beast,” Blaise said. “Literally. It’s covered in fur, and it bites. I had to hex it with that spell the twins taught Harry to stick someone’s books closed.”

“Didn’t Kettleburn retire?” Theo said. “Who’s the new Care teacher?”

They all looked at Pansy, but she just shrugged. “They were keeping it quiet. I asked around. No one would say anything. Although Snape looked even more annoyed than usual when I asked him, so I suspect he’s not happy with the appointment.”

“Bets on whether Daphne or Hermione threw the first hex today?” Blaise said. “It’s nearly time for them to be back.”

“Neither, they can’t use magic,” Theo said. “Idiot.”

“Blaise, who’s Matteo?” Justin said. “You’ve been annoyingly tight-lipped.”

Blaise smirked. “Family friend.”

“You called him _uncle,_ ” Harry pointed out.

“So I did.”

“Is he one of your stepfathers’ brothers?” Justin asked. The Slytherins winced. “What? I can be subtle when I want to, but honestly this is faster.”

“Hufflepuffs,” Pansy said, but without any real rancor.

Justin grinned.

“No,” Blaise said. “He’s no blood or marriage relation of mine. Ask him yourself, when you see him tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Justin huffed.

Theo looked over Harry’s shoulder, and his eyebrows rose. “Merlin’s balls, they’re both in one piece. Color me amazed.”

Harry, Pansy, and Justin all turned to look.

Daphne and Hermione were walking into the Leaky Cauldron, followed by Lady Greengrass, who swept her gaze over the inside of the pub with a faint sneer of distaste. Daphne’s expression was similar, if less refined. Hermione just looked shell-shocked.

Harry’s eyebrows drifted up. She was dressed in typical wizarding clothes instead of the Muggle garb she normally chose when she wasn’t in school robes: a fitted burgundy robe that went surprisingly well with her hair.

“Hermione,” Theo said, grinning like a cat with a canary as the other girls joined them. “You look like a proper witch now.”

Hermione scowled at him, and then managed to turn it into a passable smile. “Well met, Heir Nott.”

Blaise burst out laughing. “You needn’t be so formal with _us._ ”

“I’m practicing,” Hermione said stiffly.

Lady Greengrass nodded coolly at them. “I have other matters to attend to. Heir Zabini, I entrust my daughter to your family’s care.”

“In the name of House Zabini, I accept,” Blaise said, his voice suddenly becoming formal.

“Please convey my congratulations to the Countess.” With that, Lady Greengrass departed.

“Someone explain that,” Justin said.

Pansy leaned around Harry. “Go on, Hermione, show us what you learned today.”

Hermione glared at her, chin lifted. It was actually a Greengrassish mannerism. Not that Harry, who was presently working overtime to stifle laughter, was ever going to tell her that.

“It’s to do with minor Heirs of Noble Houses,” Theo said boredly. “Lady Greengrass is entrusting her Heir to another House. Technically, if someone came running in here and killed Daphne right now, the Greengrasses could declare a blood feud against the Zabinis.”

“I thought it was horrifyingly chauvinistic,” Hermione said. “But evidently it applies to male and female Heirs alike.”

Daphne shrugged. “I’m fairly certain my parents wouldn’t declare a blood feud, if only Blaise was around. He’s thirteen. They can’t expect him to sacrifice his life for mine. Although technically in the old days they legally could have. It’s more a formality now than anything else.”

“Did your dad do it, Harry?” Justin said.

Harry snorted. “Hardly. In fact, if there’s an assassination attempt at this wedding and I get caught in the crosshairs, he’d probably send the killer flowers. The Zabinis, too, if he could stomach it. I have it on good authority his lawyer friend is trying to disinherit me.”

“Ethan Thorne,” Pansy said with distaste. “New money. His father’s family is from somewhere in Eastern Europe.”

 “Is there anyone you _don’t_ know?” Justin said.

Pansy smirked.

“The new Care teacher,” Theo pointed out, eliciting a murderous look from Pansy.

“We’re only waiting on Neville now, right?” Hermione said. “Since Hannah can’t come.”

Harry nodded.

“Does _his_ grandmother follow these old traditions?” Hermione said. “And—Theo, what about your dad?”

“Just as strictly as Daphne’s, actually,” Blaise said. “Both of them. Lord Nott did it in person this morning. So did Lord Parkinson. Augusta Longbottom sent a vaguely threatening letter to my mum last week entrusting her grandson and Heir to our care, starting today.”

Hermione looked startled. “Neville never said anything.”

“He was afraid to,” Theo said quietly. “You’ve likely seen how the Other Potter and his friends treat Neville—if he admitted his family stays with some of the old ways, they would be even harder on him, and he might lose you in the process.”

Harry watched Hermione closely while Theo explained. Something like guilt crossed her face. They still hadn’t talked seriously about… everything that happened last year. Their fight. Harry wasn’t going to apologize unless there was literally no other way to salvage any kind of friendship, because he loathed apologies. In fact, he’d much rather have just not said anything and gotten on with their lives, and cautiously reevaluated his trust in their friendship if she managed to change her behavior. But Hermione was not Theo or Daphne; she liked and kind of _needed_ to talk things out. He’d been bracing himself for that conversation all summer. It looked, though, like the Greengrass interference would make things a bit easier.

“There he is,” Daphne said. “Late, as usual.”

Neville frowned at her. “It’s one minute to noon, you lot are just early.”

“You’ve grown teeth,” Daphne said.

“Where’s Eriss?” Neville said.

Harry grinned. “Sleeping, as usual.”

“How’s your gran been?” Hermione said as Neville took the last spot at their table, looking at him with bossy concern.

Harry winced. So her tact still needed a little work.

Neville shrugged. He at least seemed to take Hermione in stride. “It’s… easier. She was kind of—overbearing. Growing up. We kind of had a fight about it the first week back from school. I think I accidentally guilt-tripped her…”

“Guilt trips can be remarkably effective, applied at the right time and as long as you don’t overdo it,” Pansy mused. “The second the target thinks it’s deliberate, it loses some of its force… What?”

Neville and Hermione were staring at her.

Justin started laughing. “You guys should be used to the Slytherins by now.”

“What, and _you_ are?” Hermione said. “Hufflepuffs aren’t like this!”

“My parents are _businesspeople_ ,” Justin said, still laughing. “Hermione, they’re both CEOs of different companies. I grew up learning two things: how to manipulate people mostly from my mom, and how to be ethical about it mostly from my dad.”

“I… suppose,” Hermione said. “Still.”

“Like you’ve never guilt-tripped anyone,” Harry teased her, smirking.

She blushed. “Only to get my parents to buy me books.”

“That is the most Hermione thing you have ever said,” Theo said, snickering.

“Let me guess, you still feel guilty about it?” Blaise said.

Hermione looked embarrassed. “I guess… well, no, mostly I’m guilty about the fact that I don’t feel guilty for it.”

“Oh no,” Pansy said, her gleeful expression entirely at odds with her words. “We’re rubbing off on her.”

“Joy,” Hermione muttered, but she didn’t seem upset.

“ _Now_ will you tell us the story?” Blaise said, looking at Harry expectantly.

Everyone perked up. Harry grimaced. “Fine…”

He kept it short, describing Marge and the deal he’d made with Vernon, summarizing the verbal abuse she hurled at him, and the events that led to him leaving the house. The others stared at him in shock when he was done.

“Harry,” Hermione said. “That’s—I’m amazed you weren’t _expelled_.”

“Forget expelled, he should’ve been up on charges,” Pansy said.

Harry shrugged. “If my last name was anything but Potter, I would be. Apparently they’re worried Sirius Black is out to murder me and Jules as revenge, so they had a task force out looking for me and when I turned up at the Leaky, Wright was waiting for me. He works in the Minister’s office now, did you know?” Pansy was clearly storing that away for later use. “Ethan Thorne wanted to paint me as a heinous Muggle-hating Slytherin bigot, predictably, but someone jumped in and covered up the whole thing. Technically it was accidental magic anyway, so I was covered by exemptions for the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Magic from further charges and probably expulsion. The Ministry can’t legally expel me anyway—the Headmaster is the only one who can do that—not that I’d expect Dumbledore to jump in and save me, but still.”

“Of course he would,” Hermione said.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. “Hagrid. Stone. Cerberus. Basilisk.”

She winced. “Fair…”

“You’ve got all the legal stuff down,” Neville said, impressed.

Harry shrugged. They all knew that he had had wilder accidental magic as a kid than most and for the most part chalked it up to the open secret of his terrible home life. Only Pansy, Neville, Blaise, and Theo knew about his wandless magic capabilities. “They push my buttons. Sometimes my magic gets away from me. I looked it up last year so I’d have my bases covered in case something happened this summer.”

“Good thinking,” Hermione said. She was still frowning, probably because of her blind faith in authority was facing off with all the evidence suggesting that Harry hadn’t had any options other than to handle it himself. Harry wondered idly when she would come to terms with something he’d known since he was a toddler—in the end, you couldn’t rely on anyone but yourself.

“Glad to see those Muggles get what they deserve,” Blaise muttered.

Hermione glared at him. “Blaise—”

“They’re awful people,” he said, looking down his nose at her. “Not because they’re Muggles, because of how they’ve treated Harry. And it’s not as if Muggle or Ministry officials were going to do anything.”

Hermione bit her lip. Took a deep breath.

And nodded. “I suppose.”

_I really wonder what Daphne said to her._

“Wonderful that we’ve gotten all the gossip out of the way,” Theo said sarcastically. “Can we get going?”

“Please,” Hermione said, relieved. “I can’t _wait_ to see the Zabini library—”

“No, you promised you wouldn’t disappear into it until _after_ the wedding,” Blaise said, frowning. They started collecting their bags—those without Shrinking Charms-enabled trunks had to go get them from the racks by the fireplace—and getting ready for the Floo.

“I promised I wouldn’t _disappear_ ,” Hermione said. “I never promised I wouldn’t _look_ …”

“We’re definitely rubbing off on her,” Theo declared.

Neville shook his head. “I can’t wait to see her go up against Ronald this year…”

Harry pulled Daphne aside as the rest of them arranged their trunks and bags by the fireplace and Old Tom got the Floo ready. “How’d she do?”

“Mother reduced her nearly to tears at one point,” Daphne said bluntly. “Not the clothing; that she seemed mostly overwhelmed by—I believe it was having her occasional shocking narrow-mindedness pointed out to her that did it. But I think the message got across. And I got her to admit before we came in that the old ways aren’t inherently ‘bigoted.’”

“Progress,” Harry said.

“You need it to,” Daphne said, eyeing him. “You’ve done much better than Hermione, but I certainly approve of Blaise roping his uncle into instructing you and Justin. I’d have had Mother do it, but it wouldn’t be appropriate for a Lady of a Noble house to instruct young wizards in such things.”

He shrugged. “Notice that I didn’t argue when Blaise brought it up.”

“At least you admit you need assistance,” Daphne sniffed.

 

Matteo was not what Harry had expected. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, exactly, but Matteo was not it. Justin and Harry were waiting on the terrace of Casa Zabini, sipping tea and arguing about their Arithmancy book, which Harry had read half of and Justin the first few chapters. Matteo, when he found them, turned out to be completely, entirely unassuming in every respect save one: he had fangs that showed when he smiled.

 _“Hello, fellow Parseltongue,”_ he said.

Harry flinched so hard he nearly dropped his teacup. Make that two. Hidden inside his robes, Eriss stirred. _“What—_ ” He coughed, remembered his manners, and switched back to English so Justin could understand. “How… did you…”

“Blaise informed me of your ability,” Matteo said, smiling smugly. “I thought to test you, discover for myself if he spoke true…”

“How are you a Parselmouth?”

Justin stared between them. “Was that Parseltongue?”

“It is an ancestral magic of my kind. You do not recognize your friend’s language when it is spoken?” Matteo said in disapproval that was faint but no less cutting.

“I don’t use it often,” Harry said. “In—front of them.”

“How foolish of you,” Matteo said dismissively. “It is always proper to remind one’s vassals why they are vassals and one Lord.”

Harry winced. Justin coughed, probably hiding a snort.

“Sir, they’re not my vassals,” Harry said. “Just friends.”

“Nonsense, you’re Heir of House Potter, are you not?”

“And my friends include the Heirs of Houses Zabini, Nott, Greengrass, Parkinson, and Longbottom,” Harry said.

Matteo’s eyes widened a fraction. He was so inexpressive that this was the equivalent of a shout of surprise. “I will be having _words_ with Master Blaise for neglecting to inform me he had cultivated such an _interesting_ social circle. Heir Longbottom, you say?”

“Yes,” Justin said.

“A Gryffindor family. Fascinating. And who might you be?”

Justin blinked. “Er—Justin Finch-Fletchley—”

“Incorrect,” Matteo said.

“No—no, that’s my name—”

Matteo glared and Justin fell silent. “Blaise has informed me that your family, though _mundane_ , commands impressive prestige, influence, and financial resources in the nonmagical world, yes?”

“I—suppose,” Justin said.

“No! Bone and blood, this task shall be harder than even I expected. You are not the eldest son but you have a family to _represent_ , Mr. Finch-Fletchley. You will introduce yourself with _confidence_ as Justin of House Finch-Fletchley. I do not _care_ that your family is not a wizarding House. If you wish to be taken seriously in this world, you follow wizarding customs and comport yourself in a manner that does credit to yourself and your family. Am I clear?”

Justin blinked and straightened his spine. Even Harry had been a bit cowed by the tirade, although somehow his usual reflexive distrust of unfamiliar adults had somehow been misplaced in Matteo’s case. The longer he spent in the man’s company, the more he _wanted_ to trust and like him. This set off loud alarm bells in Harry’s head and he actually kept even more on his guard than usual, although it was an effort to remind himself every few seconds _do not trust him, do not like him._

“Yes, sir,” Justin said firmly.

“Excellent. Try again. Who might you be, boy?” Matteo sipped his tea, the embodiment of elegant high society manners, and coolly met Justin’s eyes.

“Justin of House Finch-Fletchley, rising third year at Hogwarts,” Justin said with his chin lifted and iron in his eyes. It was too quick of a transition for him not to have acted like this before. Harry suddenly got the distinct feeling Justin had grown up in the Muggle equivalent of Daphne Greengrass’ world, and simply not realized what parts of it transferred to wizard society.

Matteo nodded. “Improvement. And you?” he turned on Harry.

“I am Hadrian, Heir of Housse Potter,” Harry said simply. On a whim, he let a _slight_ bit of Parseltongue touch the _s_ in _house_ , making Eriss tighten her grip around his waist, and Matteo smiled approval.

“Improvement in both cases. The introduction is a delicate art, and vital to forming both a positive impression in others’ minds, as well as proving one’s mastery of the laws that govern your culture. For example: well met, Heir Potter, Mr. Finch-Fletchley. Matteo Baresi, blood-bound of Casa Zabini.” Matteo sipped his tea again. “Heir Potter, dissect that statement for me.”

“You listed me first because technically, as an Heir, I outrank Justin,” Harry said promptly. “You stated your name first, followed by House affiliation, which tells me you are neither a wizard nor a member of another House or line that you’d need to inform us of.”

“Very good. And what, Mr. Finch-Fletchley, would you logically need to know at this point?”

“Form of address,” Justin said. His eyes were gleaming. For some reason he seemed to _like_ this. Harry didn’t—well, actually, that was a lie. He did. He was enjoying it. Not that he’d ever admit as much to Hermione or Blaise.

Matteo nodded. “Any sentient non-wizard sworn to a wizarding noble House goes by the prefix Romesse, a derivative of the French _promesse_ , or promise, whence the tradition originates.”

Harry studied him. “If I may be so bold, Romesse Baresi, you resemble wizards rather more than any sentient non-wizard species I have knowledge of.”

“Oh, skilled indeed, Heir Potter,” Matteo said, smiling a Cheshire grin. “Mr. Finch-Fletchley, can you deconstruct his inquiry?”

“Yes,” Justin said. “Technically it wasn’t an inquiry, as he phrased it like a simple statement. I’d say ‘of fact’ but we talked about vampires, succubi, ghouls, phantoms, and banshees in first-year Defense, among a few other species classed as “sentient non-wizards” by the Ministry, and Harry’s got quite a good memory, so I’m assuming he fell back on his status as a student to excuse his supposed ignorance and hopefully get you to tell us precisely which species you belong to.”

He and Harry grinned at each other.

“I recant my previous frustration. You are both apt pupils.” Matteo’s grin widened, revealing his fangs fully. “As you might have guessed, I am a vampire, and as such cannot work magic as wizards understand it. However, I do have some… natural gifts… that come with being me, among them being Parseltongue. Another, Heir Potter, you are resisting admirably. Wizards and mundane humans alike feel, in the presence of a vampire, a subtle compulsion to like the vampire, to trust them, to befriend them and value their opinion.”

Justin blinked. “Oh. _Oh._ I wondered what—I thought you were just nice.”

“That you noticed it at all does you credit,” Matteo said. “Many grown wizards and mortals never do. Heir Potter, forgive me if I offend—but you have an unusually strong resistance to the compulsion, and I wonder if I specifically earned your distrust, or if it is a general response?”

Harry considered how to answer. It was more than he usually ever admitted, at least out loud, but he trusted Justin and it seemed like Matteo had already figured him out. Probably Blaise had told him. “My childhood was less than ideal,” he said. “It is an ingrained habit to distrust adults, particularly strangers. I noticed that I _wasn’t_ automatically distrusting you—rather the opposite—and that raised some red flags.”

“Mmm.” Matteo fixed him with an empty glare. His inexpressive brownish-gray eyes were more threatening even than Snape’s. “A fair response, Heir Potter, but if I may, you revealed rather more than you had to. If Blaise had not already hinted to me as to the character of the mortals who raised you, I might still have made the same inquiry, and you’d have given up information that could be used against you in the future.”

It was Harry’s turn to blink in surprise.

Matteo smirked. “You dance well, for your age, but there are more experienced performers on the stage than you, Heir Potter. You would do well to watch your step amongst your elders.”

Justin snickered.

“I will be instructing you in your etiquette, tact, and verbal wordplay throughout our time together,” Matteo said. “The Italian equivalent of Diagon Alley is the height of wizarding society. You are to keep silent unless we’ve addressed a given situation, be polite, mind your manners and your words, remember what I tell you, and observe the interactions around us as I will question you about them whenever an opportunity arises. This will all happen while we fix those wardrobes of yours.”

“These robes are gifts from the Greengrass family,” Harry said.

“And they are perfectly adequate, for casual affairs. Mr. Finch-Fletchley, you have managed to pick up on wizarding dress styles better than most raised by mortals, but it is not a perfect integration.” He set his teacup down and grinned at both of them. “Do try not to offend anyone too important today.”

 

“Well,” Justin said.

Harry looked at the boxes and parcels littering the hall outside the Zabini guest suites. “Yeah.”

Matteo was—something else.

“I don’t think I can remember all that,” Justin said, looking about as dazed as Harry felt. “All the tidbits and the names—”

“I really doubt we’ll be expected to,” Harry said, hoping it was true. “He’s blood-bound of House Zabini going on three centuries now, remember? He’s probably forgotten more social tricks than either of us will ever know. And I’d bet good money a lot of what he _did_ teach us has been let slip with time.”

“I hope,” Justin said.

Harry kicked one of the parcels near him. “I had no idea we’d need this many clothes.”

“Me neither,” Justin agreed. He groaned suddenly. “Oh _no_ —Mum said she wants to see me in all of them, she’s fascinated by wizarding culture, she’s going to make me try on the whole lot when I get home…”

“Just do maybe half of it and say that was all,” Harry suggested.

Justin shook his head. “She always knows when we’re lying. It’s creepy. I’ll have to do all of it.”

“Have fun with that,” Harry said solemnly, trying not to let his laughter show, and started moving his packages into his room.

Grumbling, Justin copied him.

The room Harry had been given was opulent without being garish, tasteful and elegant without blatantly flaunting wealth. The décor was very much in keeping with the Slytherin dorms: dark wood furnishings accented with muted green and occasional silver fittings, elegance, and simplicity. Blaise had clearly suggested to his mother that she have her house-elves make over the guest rooms in the styles of the House dorms. He wondered what Neville’s rooms looked like. For that matter, he wondered what the Gryffindor common room was like on the inside. Technically, as far as Harry could tell, Slytherin was the only House with an official rule about bringing other students into the common room—he could almost definitely get Justin and Hannah to let him into Hufflepuff sometime, even if half their House’s upper years still disliked him. For Gryffindor he’d have to get sneaky. Maybe brew some Polyjuice in the Chamber and use that. For a second he considered not telling Hermione and seeing how _she_ liked it… but no, that would just reignite their feud.

Speaking of which.

Harry checked his watch. 8:13. He still had time.

 _“Are we going to speak to the bushy-hair girl?”_ Eriss said.

“ _Yep.”_ Harry walked down the hall.

Eriss wriggled; Harry shifted her into a more comfortable and not as well concealed position.

He knocked on Hermione’s door, which was four down the hall.

No answer.

He snickered. Either she was asleep or she was in the library. He’d missed the official tour of Casa Zabini the others had gotten this morning, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t creep around a bit…

After fifteen minutes of wandering around reluctantly awed by the gorgeous insides of the Zabini family manor, Harry finally tracked down the library, cunningly concealed behind a tall blue vase on the third floor. He stepped inside and breathed in deeply: there was something reassuring about the scent of all these books. Libraries contained knowledge, and knowledge was power. Ergo, libraries equaled power, prestige, advantage. Not to mention a safe haven. There was a sanctity to a place of such value that Harry felt even more keenly than most people after having grown up hiding in the public library from Dudley. Not that the Muggle public library could hold a candle to this one. The shelves were two stories tall, lined with rolling ladders, and stretched neatly back for nearly ten meters. It wasn’t as big as the Potter Manor library either… but there was definitely a different atmosphere here. More secretive. More powerful. Harry liked it.

He drew his wand. _“Homenum revelio.”_

 _“What does that one do?”_ Eriss said, creeping out from under his shirt. She knew he was here for Hermione, who knew Eriss already.

Harry ran an absent hand over his familiar’s head. _“Watch._ ”

His wand was already shifting in his hand, lining up with a faint tug at his awareness—a pull in the direction of anyone close by. The spell was more attuned to wizards and witches than to Muggles, and Harry being only thirteen with an as-yet-immature magical core, its range was extremely limited. But it would save him a few minutes of searching. He followed the tug.

“Hermione.”

Her bush head snapped up. “Oh! Harry, hi. I was—reading.”

“I can see that.” He gestured at the second padded chair in the reading corner she’d found. “May I?”

“Of course.”

“What’re you reading?”

She showed him the cover. “A fourth edition of _Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts._ Did you know there’ve been at least four Gryffindor Dark Lords and Ladies from England since Hogwarts was founded?”

Harry saw no point denying it. “Theo told me.”

Hermione scowled. “Of course. I wonder—why is this not in the current edition of the book?” She flipped through another copy, which was larger and in much better condition. “They completely skipped at _least_ sixteen key players in the last two thousand years of Dark magic.”

“Interesting.” Harry had his suspicions. “Hermione—I didn’t want to bring this up in a letter…”

She closed the book with a determined expression. “What happened last year.”

“Yes.”

“Look,” she said. “That fight was… stupid, and I’m sorry. I was narrow-minded and Gryffindor prejudiced. _Neville_ read me the riot act after school let out. It was… a rude awakening.”

“I also did not handle it well,” Harry forced himself to admit. “It’s been… difficult… for me. What with my… aunt and uncle having treated me—how they did for being a wizard. I know not all Muggles are as awful as they are—Justin’s parents are living proof. But that doesn’t change… what I think about separatism. Our worlds are better off staying apart.”

Hermione frowned. “I really want to argue, but I can’t.”

He smiled a little. “That I have a hard time believing. You could argue with a rock if you put your mind to it. Much like Theo and Pansy, actually.”

“Enough out of you, Potter,” she said, but grinning. “And… I’ll agree to be more suspicious of authority figures if you’ll agree to be less suspicious of them.”

Harry considered this. “How about I agree to objectively consider my reflexive distrust on a case-by-case basis and keep an open mind to appeals that we might be able to trust an authority figure?”

“Fair enough.”

Eriss popped her head out of Harry’s shirt. _“Tell her I say hello.”_

“Eriss says hello,” Harry said, snickering.

Hermione stared at the snake. “I will never get used to that…”

“You’d better,” Harry said with a smirk.

“Oh, fine,” Hermione huffed. “I presume you’re going to keep her secret?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I spent all of last year deflecting curses because people thought I was the Heir of Slytherin, to the point that helping the Boy Who Lived kill a _basilisk_ and save two first-years was the only thing that shut them down, and you have to ask if I’m going to keep my deadly viper familiar a secret?”

She winced. “Okay, point taken.”

_“Can she rub my belly? She has warm hands.”_

Harry smiled. “She wants you to hold her. And rub her stomach. Apparently your hands are warm.”

“Oh… I suppose.” Hermione looked a touch nervous, but she steeled herself and took Eriss from Harry. The snake was about a foot and a half long now, and heavier than when Hermione had met her on the train last year. She curled up in Hermione’s lap and twisted partly onto her back in an imperious, silent order. Hermione started gingerly petting her while Harry tried not to laugh.

“And I’ll think about Dumbledore,” Hermione added grudgingly. “He… well. Neville pointed out all the suspicious circumstances surrounding the Stone first year.” _Go Neville._ Harry wondered exactly what the Gryffindor boy thought of Dumbledore. He’d never really heard Neville speak one way or the other about the old goose. “And then—Hagrid. It’s just—so hard to believe!”

“Belief involves faith without evidence,” Harry said, parroting something his third grade science teacher had taught the class about religion versus science. “You don’t have to believe when there’s evidence. Just look at the facts.”

“I will. I mean, I have.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“I’m not going to change my principles,” Hermione said firmly. “If people call me Mudblood, I’m going to get angry.”

“You have every right,” he said. “Theo and Pansy keep saying—blood matters. Ability matters more. For what it’s worth, I haven’t exactly reacted well to _Mudblood_ being thrown around in my own House.”

“I know,” Hermione said. “Malfoy?”

“He’s a git,” Harry said, frowning. “I’m working on him. I scared the piss out of him last year after—after the Polyjuice incident, and he’s been easier since.”

“So _you’re_ the reason he was in the hospital wing,” Hermione said, eyes wide.

“Er… yeah?”

She shrugged. “Lavender has a peanut allergy and Ronald forgot about it and ate peanut fudge in the common room. She was in the hospital wing for treatment when Malfoy came in reportedly bald and with a large set of antlers.”

Harry smirked. “Yes, that was me. _Anteoculatia._ I do know the countercurse, but—well. Undoing it myself wouldn’t have made my point, would it?”

“Isn’t that—a bit of a Dark spell?” Hermione said faintly.

Harry paused. He supposed it was—but the thing about Slytherin was you stopped caring pretty quickly about Light and Dark spells. Ravenclaws tended to do it too—they’d get caught up in their studying or their research or their curiosity and decide to completely forget silly things like laws saying interesting spells were illegal. “It’s… a bit questionable,” he finally said. “More gray than Dark, really. But—well. I don’t know if being in Slytherin is the cause or the effect… but I tend to look at spells as being good or bad depending on how you use them. Muggle chainsaws can cut trees for firewood to keep a family alive during a bad winter, or they can be used to violently murder someone. The chainsaw’s not evil, is it?”

“Oh,” Hermione said. She made a face. “I—take your point.”

“You hate feeling wrong, don’t you?” he said, grinning.

“Yes!” She waved her hands in the air, causing Eriss to squirm down and come back towards Harry. “You don’t—”

“What? Understand?” Harry shrugged. “I might not. We’re definitely very different people. And Neville or Justin would be a more sympathetic listener than me.”

“I think that’s why I want to tell you this,” Hermione said, scowling. “Platitudes are useless. And I’m _not_ asking for pity so don’t you dare give it to me.”

Harry leaned back in his seat and gestured lazily for her to continue as Eriss climbed up into his lap.

“My parents weren’t around much when I was a kid,” Hermione said. “School was hard for me. Mum and Dad and my teachers and the other students all expected me to be brilliant, and the other students resented me for it, and I ended up reading a _lot_. Books were just easier than people. I love reading, and I love learning. And being wrong is like—”

“Like everything you’ve built your identity on is cracking,” Harry said.

She blinked. “…yes.”

In another life, he might’ve built himself an identity on being a good little Gryffindor—if he’d been ten minutes later or earlier buying a telescope and never met his first, best friend, if James Potter hadn’t abandoned him, if Dumbledore wasn’t such a manipulative arse, if, if, if.

When Harry said nothing else, Hermione shrugged. “So when Justin told me point blank that I come across as a bossy know-it-all with no sense of other people’s privacy, I thought he was just being melodramatic. Daphne was cruel about it. But she got the point across. What I’m saying is… I’m going to try, okay? And I’d like to ask that you try and see things from my perspective. Can you understand why I would’ve suspected Malfoy last year?”

Harry considered it for a few seconds. Then he caught the expression on her face, and grinned. “You were expecting an _of course_ , weren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s just hard for me to see how anyone could think him _capable_ ,” Harry said. “But—I guess I live with him. You lot don’t. Theo had it right, though. He’s an artistic and book-smart little shit, I’ll give him that much, but cunning he is not. Least, not yet. And that’s what you have to be to open the Chamber and run around attacking people with a basilisk at your beck and call and not get caught. Also, he was _twelve_. Even Tom Riddle didn’t manage it until his fifth year and Dumbledore called him “the most brilliant student Hogwarts had ever seen”. But I suppose… looking at it like a Gryffindor… it makes a bit more sense.”

“A _bit_ ,” Hermione muttered. “I’ll take that. I would appreciate an apology, you know. It’s the polite thing to do when someone apologizes to you after a fight.”

Damn. “Hermione…”

“But you don’t like apologizing, so let’s both just pretend you said the words instead of just implying it and move on.”

He snickered. “Agreed.”

Eriss flicked her tail. _“The nest-haired girl is cleverer than I thought.”_

Harry actually laughed.

“What did she say?” Hermione said.

“Ah… something not very flattering about your hair,” Harry admitted, grimacing. "But also that you're clever." 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I don’t see why everyone’s so _worried_ ,” she said. “It’s just _hair._ Daphne’s mum gave me a book of hair, clothes, and makeup charms and a doll to try them on so I don’t light my own head on fire or make myself bald on accident the first few times I try.”

“I wonder if someone came up with the Antler Jinx from a hair charm gone wrong,” Harry mused.

Hermione got the glint in her eye that meant _new research project_.

“Hermione,” Harry said before he could lose his nerve.

“Yes?”

“Could you… could you do me a favor and look into Sirius Black and the histories of how the last war ended?” If he could get a neutral party, as opposed to a Slytherin friend whose ties to the Death Eaters he wasn’t sure about, to corroborate his suspicions without prompting, things would be a lot easier.

She frowned. “Harry, you’re not going to go haring off to try and kill Black, are you?”

“What? No, why in Merlin’s name would I do something that stupid?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Well… Parvati told me she’s worried about Jules doing so. She’s been spending a lot of time with Jules and Ron this summer, and we’re… casual friends, or something. English really needs more words for different levels of friendship.”

Harry scoffed. “Yes, well, that is because my brother is a reckless Gryffindor and I am not.”

“Definitely not,” Hermione said with a pointed look at Eriss.

Harry smirked and picked up his familiar. She wound easily around his right arm. “Thanks, Hermione. See you tomorrow.”

“I can’t _wait_ to meet the Countess Zabini,” Hermione muttered sarcastically.

Harry grinned at her over his shoulder as he walked away. “Maybe try one or two of those hair charms, yeah?”

He dodged the quill she threw at him and left the library, still smirking. Hermione was great. Maybe if he’d had a sister growing up, or a cousin, and been in a decent family, this was what he could’ve had all along.

 

“Welcome to Casa di Angeli.”

Conversation over the breakfast table cut out immediately as Countess Zabini breezed in.

Literally, breezed. When Harry looked closely, she was moving on a carpet of enchanted air for some reason. Probably shock factor. It was working on Neville and, surprisingly, Daphne and Pansy.

“House Nott is grateful for your hospitality, Countess,” Theo said formally.

Harry remembered Matteo’s lessons. The Ancient and Noble House Heirs at the table could go in whatever order they liked, followed by Heirs to houses that were only Noble, and then followed by Hermione and Justin. “As is House Potter.”

Pansy and Neville finished out the Ancient and Noble Heirs, then Daphne chimed in, and finally Hermione with “the nonmagical family Granger” and Justin with the same for his family.

Countess Zabini stood at the head of their table with a gracious smile. “And I welcome you all to my home as Countess of House Zabini. It is always a delight to meet my son’s friends.”

There was a hard, calculating edge beneath her carefully cultivated warmth. Harry could see she was an uncommonly beautiful woman, he’d have to be blind not to—high cheekbones, large liquid eyes, rich brown skin, sleek and perfectly styled black hair, the general impression of a statue come to life. But because he was also not an idiot, he also saw that she was assessing all the angles and probably considering how she could use Blaise’s friendships with the Heirs of several powerful families to her benefit. Blaise’s Knights Room rant about not being able to trust her was making a lot more sense.

“I request only, while you are here, that you respect my ancestral home and possessions, as well as the Italian laws regarding underage magic.”

Harry had already broken that law the previous evening, and judging by the Countess’ tone, she didn’t really expect them to follow it. Blaise had warned them all ahead of time that the Italian Ministry was lax about underage magic as long as no one was permanently injured but his mum would still say something as a formality.

Once they’d all nodded, she smiled beatifically. “Wonderful. I unfortunately have wedding preparations to see to, so you may make yourselves at home. Please take advantage of the many attractions our glorious city has to offer. Blaise, perhaps a ride in a gondola? I’m sure Luis would be happy to oblige.”

“Of course, Mother,” Blaise said, eyes lowered.

She nodded and swept regally out of the room once more.

A few seconds passed in silence.

“Damn, Blaise,” Justin finally said. “So _that’s_ where your dramatic flair comes from.”


	3. Summer Drama

The following two weeks were some of the strangest, and most incredible, of Harry’s life. Italian food, he decided, was his new favorite thing, but even the food couldn’t compare to the delights of the foreign city and the Zabini library.

He’d never gotten the chance to travel before, and seeing Venice was an entirely different world. Harry got Blaise to start teaching him Italian, and found that he loved attempting to communicate in the foreign language even though Blaise informed him with a perfect poker face that his accent was terrible. “So is your Transfiguration work,” Harry said innocently. This resulted in him nearly getting tipped out of the Zabini powerboat and a glare from Matteo for their lack of decorum.

“If you think _this_ is a culture shock, you should try the Saharan wizarding tribes,” Neville said with feeling. “Gran and I spent a few weeks with them last summer, remember? So interesting, but bloody insane. Why you’d want to live in a _desert…”_

Matteo continued to tutor Harry and Justin, although he said they both were doing quite well already and didn’t honestly need much help. Harry took this to mean he’d manage just fine by the expectations set for a thirteen-year-old and decided not to worry about the wedding. Hermione, when she bothered to remember, did remarkably well with the traditional mannerisms, although she let them drop as soon as they got anywhere near a bookstore.

To her credit, she really tried to be less of a know-it-all about schoolwork. Even Daphne reluctantly conceded the difference, and grudgingly returned the favor by accepting Hermione’s help with history, which she’d previously refused on principle.

The day after the wedding—which had, honestly, been rather boring, aside from the magic decorations, Eriss’ hissed sarcastic commentary, and the lot of them placing bets on whether Countess Zabini’s patience or her new husband’s tolerance for alcohol would wear out sooner as the dancing went on—they were hanging out in the library. Theo pulled out a book of very gray spells and handed it to Hermione with a suspiciously innocent expression. Hermione, to her credit, paled slightly, but then she took it and opened it with a determined air.

Half an hour later, she was absolutely hooked.

Harry met Theo’s eyes over her head and exchanged a smirk with his friend.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us for the rest of the summer?” Blaise said.

“Or me,” Neville added. “My gran doesn’t mind. She doesn’t like your father much anyway, I think she’d love to irritate him by taking you in.”

“Tempting as that is, Neville, I’m going to stay at the Leaky Cauldron,” Harry said. His three days there between the Marge disaster and leaving for Italy had been delightful—independence, a bag full of gold, and all of Diagon Alley right there outside his door. “I’ll see you all on the train, all right?”

Blaise sighed theatrically. “If you’re certain.”

Harry examined him. He suspected Blaise might be rather bored with his mum on her honeymoon in Abu Dhabi with her new husband…

“You could stay too, Blaise,” he said suddenly. “The Trace doesn’t work well around Diagon, anyway, the whole area’s smothered in wards and it messes up the detection.”

“Stay at the Leaky Cauldron?” Blaise said, lip curling.

Harry shrugged. The rooms in the Leaky weren’t like the Zabini manor or the Slytherin dorms, but they were a damn sight better than a cot in a boot cupboard. “Might do you some good, Mr. Spoiled Pureblood Prince. If you can’t handle it…”

“Excuse you,” Blaise said, nose in the air, “I believe you’ve confused me with Malfoy. How much is it per night?”

“Four Sickles,” Harry said.

Blaise stalked up to Old Tom.

“Well played,” Pansy said while Theo snickered and Neville shook his head.

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Harry said, sipping tea.

Blaise returned and sat down, smug. Then he took in the Slytherins’ smirks, Neville’s exasperation, and Justin’s wry amusement. Hermione, predictably, was reading and paying no attention to the rest of them.

“…wait,” Blaise said. He focused on Harry. “You _played_ me!”

“Oh, bravo,” Pansy said. “Such a genius, you are.”

“I’ll get you for that, Potter,” Blaise said.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure.”

“It’s only for a week,” Justin said, trying and failing to sound sympathetic. He clearly thought the whole thing was quite a joke. “It’s not as if you’ll catch anything.”

“I _might_ ,” Blaise said, glaring at an elderly wizard a few tables over who’d been sneezing throughout their goodbye lunch.

 

The next day, Harry came back from a leisurely morning browsing one of the used-and-new bookstores that sat near the boundary between Diagon and Knockturn with his pack loaded down enough that even the high-end Expansion Charms were straining and he could feel its weight. At least a few of the books were of a sort he ought not be caught with at school, but he still didn’t dare go into the actual Knockturn and so none of them was truly illegal.

“Harry!”

Harry turned around and forced a smile onto his face. “Jules, Ron—good to see you.” The smile turned genuine when he looked past them and caught sight of Ginny, Fred, and George.

“Ickle snakey Potter,” George said, grinning. “Long time no see.”

“Blow anyone up lately?” Fred said innocently.

Jules glowered. Ron muttered something about Muggle haters.

“What was that, Ronald?” Harry said politely. “I can’t hear you over the sound of my _dear_ aunt Marge calling my father a drunk useless layabout, my mother an addict who sold herself for drugs, and myself a useless freak.”

Ronald sputtered. Jules turned white.

“Sounds like you had a fantastic summer, then,” Ginny said. She was smirking.

“Oh, it was excellent,” he said, smirking back. “The Zabini wedding didn’t even result in an assassination. Buying your school things?”

“Here’s hoping Lucius Malfoy doesn’t slip anything in our bags this year,” Molly Weasley snarled with uncommon venom. “Come along, boys, come along—”

Somehow, Harry got dragged along in the chaos. The twins held him back and they promptly started talking in low voices about what they’d been alluding to in letters all summer, but the twins said they thought their mum suspected they were up to something and was checking their mail, so they were trying to be discreet. Harry listened, impressed, to the results of their experiments. _“Why_ aren’t you better in Potions?” he said in amazement.

“Frankly, we think other things are better uses of our time,” George said.

“And Snape doesn’t deserve the credit for us proving we’re any good at his subject,” Fred added.

Harry couldn’t argue with that, so he let it drop.

After five minutes of Ginny and Ron sniping at each other in the bookstore, Harry, who was browsing the Defense section with the twins on the off chance the very Light Flourish and Blotts had added something reasonably interesting to their stock, raised an eyebrow at George. “What’s with that?”

George and Fred looked over at the student book section. Ginny was glowering at Ronald while her brother seemed to be mocking her for something and Jules stood by with his arms crossed.

“They’ve been at it all summer,” Fred said darkly. “He didn’t take well to her sorting, you know—”

“I noticed, funnily enough,” Harry said. “But they seemed like they’d sorted it out at the end of the school year.”

“They did,” George said. “For about a week. Then Ron got over being grateful she’s alive and decided he doesn’t like our sister acting like a ‘slimy Slytherin prat’.”

Harry scowled.

“Pretty much,” Fred said. “I mean… She’s always been a sarcastic one, but she bit her tongue on it around everyone except us and Bill.”

“We thought she was just worried they wouldn’t think it was funny—”

“—Bill and the two of us have a much better grasp of humor, see—”

“—but since she came back for the summer, she hasn’t bothered.”

“Which leads us to suspect she used to be afraid they wouldn’t like her for biting back, or some hogwash, and doesn’t anymore.”

“Ron thinks it’s a sign she’s been _corrupted._ ”

“ _We_ think it’s hilarious.”

“Partly because it drives Ron and Percy up the wall.”

“And partly because this family could do with a little less goody-two-shoes-ing, in our esteemed opinion.”

Harry sighed. Well, thank Merlin for Gryffindor oversharing; he’d been considering all the angles and subtle inquiries he might need to get all the information they’d freely spat out. “You don’t have a problem with her being… more Slytherin?”  

“Are you joking?” Fred said. “Did you not listen to what we just said?”

“It’s bloody fantastic,” George said. “Little extra chaos never hurt anyone. And if Slytherin helped Ginny grow some teeth, good. Ron ought to have someone near his age push back.”

“Bill yelled at Charlie last week,” Fred confided. “For worrying about _little Ginny in Slytherin_.”

Harry adjusted his opinions of Bill and Charlie accordingly. 

“Huh,” was all he said.

Ginny stalked over to them a few minutes later, still scowling.

“Thank Merlin for the Trace, or I suspect Ron would have bats flying out his nose by now,” Harry said as she stopped with them.

The fiery twelve-year-old threw up her hands. “Trust me, I was tempted! If he says a word to me during school—”

“Don’t get caught,” Harry, Fred, and George all said simultaneously.

They looked at each other.

The twins burst out laughing and Harry broke into a wide smile.

“Whoa there,” Ginny said. “Harry Potter, smiling? A rare sight. I doubt Evalyn and Natalie will believe me if I told them.”

“You’ve been entrusted with a secret of greatest import,” Harry said solemnly. “Do not break my faith, Ginny Weasley.”

She mimed spelling her lips shut.

“Ohhhkay,” Fred said. “The sarcasm is making more sense now.”

“Did the hamster wheel powering your brain finally catch up to the rest of us?” Ginny said sweetly.

George cackled.

A few minutes later, Harry noticed Ginny longingly eyeing a collection of offensive and defensive jinxes.

“Been interesting our ickle sister in mean magics, Potter?” George muttered, grinning.

Harry fake glared at the twins. “I know you lot know nastier magic than anything in that book. You taught me some of my first hexes two years ago.”

“Mum would have kittens if she saw Ginny reading that,” Fred said gleefully.

George looked meaningfully at his brother. “We made a load of money last year off the enchanted pens…”

Fred grinned.

“I thought you were saving up to start a shop?” Harry said.

George shrugged. “It’s like three Sickles. If she wants to learn jinxes, we’re not going to stop her.”

“Fair enough. Need a distraction while you buy it?”

“I knew we liked you for a reason,” Fred said.

Harry wandered over to Mr. Weasley, who was looking amiably through a stack of sixth-year Muggle Studies books. A large cage of furiously squabbling furry books sat next to it. Just the sight and the noise was enough to make Harry fiercely glad he’d chosen not to take Care. Mrs. Weasley had followed Jules and Ron into the Quidditch section; Harry could hear her scolding, but she was thoroughly out of sight.

“Hi, Mr. Weasley,” Harry said. He didn’t really have a plan for this conversation, but he was good enough at improvising, and Mr. Weasley was a nice enough person, that he wasn’t worried. Harry deliberately positioned himself so Mr. Weasley turning towards him would put the man’s back to the checkout clerk.

“Harry!” Mr. Weasley beamed at him. “I didn’t get the chance to say hello in the pub—I was dreadfully sorry to hear about your altercation with your aunt, accidental magic can be a nasty thing…”

 _Oh good, they still believe it was accidental. I ought to thank Wright next time I see him._ “Yes, well, I’m grateful the Ministry was so understanding,” Harry said with a smile.

“Well, we all know how it is… you teenagers do tend to overreact somewhat, I’ve raised my share of boys, I’d know—ah, the stunts Charlie and the twins pulled when they were annoyed with Molly or me!” He laughed, not seeming to notice that Harry’s smile had become rather strained. Or that said twins were at the counter behind him buying four books on defensive magic for their delighted younger sister.

“I… yes, I suppose, teenagers do tend to be a bit impulsive,” Harry said.

“Right… er, speaking of which…” Mr. Weasley suddenly looked rather nervous. “I’ve been meaning to ask—that is—if you can’t get the Prophet at your relatives’—then has anyone—er, mentioned—”

“Sirius Black?” Harry finished, deciding to put the man out of his misery.

Mr. Weasley looked immensely relieved. “Yes, him. Dum—er, there’s some fear among—certain people—that you’ll… perhaps go running off after him to—to kill him.”

“I’ve no desire to do so,” Harry said truthfully. “I’m thirteen, and he is a grown wizard who fought in a war. I’d have no chance. Catching criminals is best left to Aurors.”

“Oh good,” Mr. Weasley said, “excellent to hear it… I already gave Jules the same talk, of course… he didn’t seem nearly so understanding…”

 _Well, of course not, he’s a reckless Gryffindor like all your brood except Ginny._ “Mr. Weasley—while we’re on the subject—I had a few questions and I wonder if you could answer them.”

“Certainly, Harry, I’ll do my best…”

“Well—” Harry hesitated; he couldn’t look too eager. “It’s just that—I was curious. About Black, you know? So I wrote the Ministry archivists, asking for the trial scripts.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve been sealed, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said. “The information provided within—”

“That’s the thing,” Harry said hesitantly. “The records weren’t—they weren’t sealed, Mr. Weasley. They’re missing.”

Mr. Weasley blinked. “Missing?”

“Yes, completely. They said they suspected a filing error, but—well, I was wondering—how plausible is that?”

“I suppose… well, it’s a magical system… someone could’ve cast the sorting charm or the summoning charm wrong… or maybe it was deliberate sabotage? I’ve never heard of such a thing before, but the Ministry archives are vast and I don’t typically access files irrelevant to my own cases.”

“Well—and—I looked up the script in the first place because I noticed something a bit… odd,” Harry said. “About the—the timing of the last war…”

Mr. Weasley leaned in. “Yes?”

“Sorry.” Harry looked quickly at the floor. “Sorry, it’s—a bit hard to talk about, you know…”

“Oh of course,” Mr. Weasley said. “Of course—well, if you’d like to—to postpone this discussion—I’d be happy to answer any questions you may have—”

“No,” Harry said determinedly. “No, it’s all right, won’t happen again—I was just wondering—well. All the books say Black spied on the Light for years.” No need to reveal he knew about Dumbledore’s ill-concealed ‘secret’ Order of the Phoenix just yet. “But my mum and dad went under the Fidelius weeks before they were betrayed. If Black was a traitor all along—then—then why weren’t we attacked the day after the charm was cast?”

Mr. Weasley looked flabbergasted. “That’s—certainly an interesting theory, Harry. My word, I’d never considered… yes, but it makes some sense… It’s really not my department, but I could make some inquiries—if that would help ease your mind?”

“I’d appreciate it, Mr. Weasley,” Harry said with a vulnerable smile. “I didn’t grow up hearing my dad’s stories, and it’s just… a bit of closure, you know? To understand what happened…”

“Of course,” Mr. Weasley said again. “Happy to help. It’s so reassuring that Ginny has such a friend in Slytherin…”

Harry hid his smirk as Mrs. Weasley dragged Jules and Ron out of the sports section to purchase the student books. The twins had neatly concealed Ginny’s new books in their Gambol and Japes bags.

Honestly, you could play Gryffindors like pipes.

 

One advantage of staying at the Leaky Cauldron was that Harry could take the Floo to the station. Why the Weasleys drove every year he hadn’t the faintest idea. Maybe Molly was too worried about losing one of her brood the way Jules had apparently managed to breathe soot, choke, and end up in Knockturn the previous year, or maybe Arthur insisted they go the Muggle way for sightseeing purposes. Either way, Harry was not interested. He’d had enough of the Muggle way of doing things for a lifetime.

He and Blaise popped out of the Floo at the station, batted soot off their robes—Harry careful not to disturb Eriss, who was asleep looped around his waist—and made for the train, collapsed trunks tucked in their pockets.

They found several of their friends on board already. Neville was holding a plant in a pot and arguing spiritedly with Theo, to Harry’s delight—he’d been quietly trying to nudge the Gryffindor out of his shell for a while now. Pansy had managed to start a conversation with Hermione about hair charms, of all things, and Hermione looked grudgingly interested, if only in the theory and design of the spells. Harry laughed at them internally and sat down between Justin and Blaise.

The train blew its whistle and set off thirty minutes later. Harry tried and failed to silence his excitement. Many of his classes were a bit boring, especially Potions and Transfiguration, since he’d been working ahead of the curriculum for two years now, but even those classes had their fun moments and he couldn’t wait to start Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Not to mention—Hogwarts was where his friends were. Hogwarts was his escape from the Dursleys. Hogwarts was his home.

He had a whole year to figure out how he was going to work out next summer, because he knew for sure he was _not_ going back to Privet Drive.

Fred and George tracked them down only a few minutes into the train ride, bringing a large package of custom sweets. Harry eyed them suspiciously and promptly had Theo cast a variety of detection charms on the whole lot. George swore up and down the sweets were harmless, and they started eating their way through the lot. Harry relaxed after a bit and pulled out a sixth-year potions textbook, reveling in the feeling of being surrounded by his friends.

He became so immersed in the potion book, annotating all over the margins with a disguised gel pen—much as he hated to admit it, he still had trouble with quills, having not grown up using wizarding writing instruments—that he didn’t notice Hermione’s attention on him for a while.

“Harry,” she finally said with a huff.

He looked up, a bit startled, from Golpalott’s Laws. “Yeah?”

“Remember the thing you asked me to look into?”

The others got quiet, listening with interest.

Harry sighed. Hermione’s tact definitely still needed some work. “I’ll explain in a sec, guys. What did you find out?”

Hermione looked around, realized everyone was curious, and straightened with the look of a teacher stepping up to lecture. Blaise rolled his eyes. “I was looking into Sirius Black,” she said. “And the end of the last war.”

“Harry, you’re not going to take off after him, are you?” Neville said worriedly.

Harry frowned. “For the last time, _no_. I’m not an idiot. Although—Neville, George, Fred, Jules just might, and I’d appreciate if you just… kept an extra eye on him?”

“Are you calling your brother an idiot, Harrykins?” Fred smirked.

“What do you think?” Harry said, grinning.

Pansy was studying Harry closely. “Why were you curious about Black?”

“I’ll explain in a minute,” Harry said. “I want to hear what Hermione noticed first.” He hadn’t wanted to have this conversation with everyone, but it couldn’t be helped.

Hermione lifted her chin. “At first it was just what I’m sure we’ve all heard. Black was the Potters’ Secret Keeper, he betrayed them to You-Know-Who, Lily Potter died on Halloween 1981, and then Jules Potter destroyed You-Know-Who somehow. Black’s trial revealed he’d been a spy for years, feeding information to the Dark, and his crowning achievement was handing the Potters over.”

“But?” Theo said, watching her like a hawk. Harry tried to watch his best friend without seeming like it.

“But…” Hermione bit her lip. “I was curious. I wrote the archives asking for the trial transcripts. They told me they couldn’t send me a copy. I asked why, and didn’t get a response.”

“They told me they’d lost them,” Harry said grimly. “They probably started looking after you wrote, and by the time I inquired, they’d determined the records were gone.”

“That’s odd,” Pansy said, frowning. “My family’s been in the Ministry for generations. The archival system is ancient and time-tested. My great-aunt revolutionized it about a hundred and fifty years ago, and my parents use the same system for their files at home—I doubt they could just _lose_ something, especially as important a record as Black’s trial script.”

“Well…” Hermione bit her lip. “Harry, I’m guessing you noticed this too and didn’t want to tell me so you wouldn’t cloud my judgment—but something doesn’t make sense.” Theo’s expression was pensive. “The Potters went under the Fidelius weeks before they were attacked. If Black was a Dark spy all along, why would he have waited?”

Neville’s eyes were huge. “Merlin,” he breathed. “I never thought of that…”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Okay—okay, it’s good to know I’m not making things up.”

“You talked to our dad about this, didn’t you?” Fred said suddenly. “In the bookstore?”

“I did,” Harry said, smirking. “Why?”

“We eavesdropped on someone firecalling him the other day. He was asking about the archival system.”

Most of their friends laughed at the twins’ daring.

“Theo?” Harry said. “What do you think?”

Theo paused as attention shifted to him. He seemed to choose his words carefully. “It’s definitely odd. I… confess I never heard Black spoken of in my household when learning how the war ended.”

Translation: Theo’s father, the supposedly Imperiused ex-Death Eater, had never told him about Black being a spy. Which could be Lord Nott keeping secrets, or it could indicate there was something more going on here.

Hermione’s gaze had sharpened on Theo. She opened her mouth. Neville silenced her with a kick. Harry thanked Merlin he’d found one of the few Gryffindors with any sense.

“You’ll just have to hope Mr. Weasley turns something up,” Justin said. “I agree it seems odd, but—It could just be a conspiracy theory, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry said with a grin. “Might be the Slytherin in me, seeing plots where they don’t exist.”

The atmosphere relaxed, but he didn’t believe his own words, and he could tell Pansy, Neville, Blaise, and Theo weren’t sure, either.

Harry went back to his book.

George and Fred left not long after, saying they needed to go track down their own year-mates. Harry forced Sirius Black out of his mind. Whatever secrets from the past existed, they'd waited twelve years; he needed to focus on his studies. His long-term goals weren’t ironclad yet, but one non-negotiable thing included continuing to top his class and best Jules in everything.

With a hiss and a clunk, the train began to slow.

Harry blinked and looked up. It was starting to get dark outside; they’d been on board for probably about five hours of the six-hour ride.

“What’s going on?” Daphne said. “The train never stops between King’s Cross and Hogsmeade.”

Just then, it stopped with a jolt. The lights went out.

 _“Lumos,”_ Harry said. Several other voices joined him; wandlight filled the compartment. They stared at each other.

“Maybe we’re picking someone up?” Neville said uncertainly.

Hermione looked out the window. “It’s the middle of the woods—wait—never mind, I see someone moving out there—”

Neville and Blaise clustered with her to look.

“In a hood,” Blaise added.

Harry and Theo drew their wands in almost the same movement. Daphne and Justin weren’t far behind.

The door wasn’t locked. Harry had wanted to make sure the twins could get back in if they wanted, and also that if Jules and Ronald wanted to drop by and stir up trouble, he could use the distraction.

Justin reached around him and slid it open, peering into the hall before any of the Slytherins could stop him.

“All clear,” he said quietly.

Harry stepped up next to him. Loads of other heads were poking curiously into the aisle; wands were held out, sending yellowish light bouncing over the walls—

“Why’s it cold?” Theo said.

Harry was just about to retreat to the compartment when a tall, hooded figure appeared at the other end of the car, exuding a powerful aura of— _bad_. Wands near it extinguished. He heard a few shrieks.

His stomach dropped to his toes.

“Merlin,” Justin breathed.

Theo elbowed Harry aside, and paled. _“Dementor!”_

The word had an immediate effect. Everyone except Justin flinched back. Harry had read about Azkaban’s horrible guards—but this was beyond what he’d imagined.

Theo dragged Justin back inside. Harry slammed the door, pulled the curtain, set a ball of wizard light blazing by the ceiling, and started casting all the locking and warding spells he knew. Blaise and Daphne joined in, layering incantations on top of Harry’s own.

“Hermione,” Theo said. “Neville. Warming charms, now.” The temperature was plummeting. The three of them started casting warming charms one after the other, but it barely helped.

Something strange was happening. Harry had been taking comfort in the fact that he was surrounded by the only people he came close to trusting, but he found it harder and harder to cling to that good feeling… A sick, bottomless despair was rising in his stomach… Somehow he knew the feeling was unnatural, and kicked it in the teeth as hard as he could, but it wasn’t like his normal emotions, even his Occlumency didn’t do more than blunt the effect slightly…

He realized he’d stopped casting. So had Blaise. Daphne got off another _“Colloportus”_ before she, too, seemed unable to raise her wand.

The door slid open as if their spells were nothing more than cobwebs to be swept aside.

A hooded figure loomed in the doorway.

Harry’s knees buckled. He fought to stay awake, glaring at the thing and clinging to all his fury, all his hatred of having anything influence his mood and mind. It was an unpleasant emotion. But it kept him conscious.

At least until the dementor leaned down toward him.

 

_“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please—”_

_The belt cracked across his shoulders again._

_Apologies would do no good. He was helpless on the floor. He stuffed his arm into his mouth and bit down hard as the belt descended four more times._

_“That’ll teach you to steal food,” Vernon said, satisfied. “Get back in your cupboard.”_

_Harry fled. He found bruises in his arm later where he’d bitten down to keep quiet._

_“Wash the dishes, do the laundry, weed the front flowerbed, iron Vernon’s work pants, and if I see a_ single _wrinkle you’ll be in the cupboard for a week, understand?”_

_“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”_

_He trudged out to the front yard, wishing desperately to be at the library—anywhere but here._

_“Get him! Get him!”_

_Harry ran as fast as he could, but he was small for his age and his lungs were burning and Piers Polkiss and Jared Barkley were both taller and leaner and faster—they got regular meals and had shoes that fit and they caught up to him by the park. Threw him to the ground._

_Dudley and Samwell and the rest skidded to a halt seconds later. Dudley’s big red face was flushed with exertion and excitement._

_“Harry Hunting! Harry Hunting!” the others jeered._

_Harry closed his eyes and curled into a ball as the first kick landed on his leg. He had to protect his head and his glasses and his stomach—those places hurt the worst._

_“You must’ve cheated,” the teacher said dismissively._

_Harry stared at her in dismay. “I never! I wouldn’t!”_

_“Your aunt told me all about you.” The teacher shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, Harry, but there’s simply no way you could’ve gotten this grade without cheating. I’m afraid I’ll have to take away snack privileges and recess for a week, and write home.”_

_Horror didn’t begin to cover what he felt. Horror, despair, abrupt and vicious anger, chilling his veins and turning his eyes ice cold—but he took the anger and stuffed it away, because being angry made freakish things happen and above all else he couldn’t let anyone see how much of a freak he was._

_Even the teacher’s hair turning blue the next day didn’t help lessen the hunger pangs in his stomach. He hated her then, for taking away snacks—one of his few sources of steady food._

“Harry! _Harry!”_

His eyes opened.

For a few seconds, before memory came back, Harry’s mind was overtaken by panic—but his limbs wouldn’t listen, they were so _cold_ , not cold like anger but cold like numb despair, sluggish, and he couldn’t sit up properly—and then he remembered the dementor and where he was and stopped struggling.

“What happened?” he croaked.

Neville’s worried face swam into focus above him. “It—you passed out, mate.”

Harry groggily sat up.

Blaise was slumped back in a seat; his face had taken on a grayish pallor. Daphne was eyeing him and not able to hide all her concern. Theo was furiously firing locking hexes at the door. Harry knew it wouldn’t do any good but if that was how Theo wanted to cope, he wasn’t going to say anything.

“Eat this,” Pansy said, holding him a bar of chocolate, “my mum went to Azkaban once and she came home and ate an entire chocolate cake—”

Harry was willing to try anything at that point, so he stuffed it in his mouth, heedless of manners. It didn’t take long for a bit of warmth to come back to his fingers and he managed to get himself up onto the bench.

“What in Merlin’s name _was_ that?” Justin said, pale and shaky. Harry knew if he looked in a mirror his medium brown skin would probably be nearly as gray as asphalt.

Hermione’s eyes were wide and owl-like.

“A dementor,” Neville said. “I’ve only ever read about them—they feed off of your worst memories…”

 _Oh._ Harry felt suddenly sick and looked away.

Theo sat down next to him, not touching, but a steady presence.

“No wonder they affected you so badly, Harry,” Hermione said. And then she clapped a hand over his mouth as Daphne, Theo, and Neville all turned to stare at her in shock and anger. “Sorry!”

“Tactless,” Daphne sneered.

“It’s okay,” Harry said wearily. “She’s right, you know.”

The door rattled. “Hello? Hello, is anyone in there?”

“It’s an adult,” Blaise hissed. “Theo—”

Theo threw a _finite_ at the spells he’d layered on the door; since he’d cast them, they flaked away easily.

The door banged open, revealing a travel-weary sandy haired man in his thirties, wearing worn but clean robes, wand out. “Is everyone all right?” he said, and then his eyes landed on Harry.

He froze.

“We’re fine, thanks,” Blaise drawled, seemingly recovered.

The man tore his gaze away from Harry. “Er—right. Did a dementor come near you?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “We tried to lock it out, but it got past our spells—then it came and looked around, and then left.”

Thank Merlin she’d left out Harry’s collapse.

“Chocolate,” the man said. “Chocolate will help—”

“We’ve already had some, thank you,” Neville said.

Harry finally summoned the energy to speak. “Excuse me, sir, but—who are you? And what was that thing doing here?”

“Ah! Right—sorry. Professor Lupin, I’ll be teaching you Defense this year. And I believe the dementors are searching for Sirius Black.” Lupin smiled, but it didn’t quite touch his eyes. He seemed to be keeping his attention off of Harry with an effort. “I’ve encountered dementors before—they woke me—I thought it best to check over the students, make sure everyone is all right. Forgive the intrusion.” He left as quickly as he’d come in.

“Well,” Pansy said. “ _He_ was awkward. I wonder why a professor is on the train?”

“Scratch that, why are there _dementors_ on the train?” Theo demanded. “As if we’re hiding Sirius Black in our pockets.”

 

“Harry?” Neville’s voice went almost unheard as the train started up again. “You all right?”

Harry took deep breaths through his nose and clung to his Occlumency. Between that and the chocolate, he was recovering. “I will be. Thanks, Neville>”

“Yeah.” Neville seemed to struggle with what to say. “Did… did you see my mimbulus mimbletonia earlier?”

“No,” Harry said, “not really…”

Neville got out the little cactus and started talking about its properties and growth cycles. Harry focused on the stream of absolutely mundane and academic information and slowly calmed down.

He finally ran out of words about five minutes later, but Harry had himself more or less under control again, and he sent his friend a grateful look before checking on everyone else. A few quiet conversations had sprung up, but everyone seemed subdued.

“No one hears I passed out,” he said firmly. If Malfoy or Jules or the Slytherin upper years found out—he repressed a shudder.

“Of course not,” Daphne said disdainfully.

The rest of the ride to school passed more or less in silence.

Harry spotted Ginny with a group of friends on the platform including Luna, Demelza Robins, Terry Boot, Natalie, Evalyn, Alex Rowle, Finn Sullivan, and Aria Crosse. Mainly Slytherins, but he was pleased to see her reaching out to the Ravenclaws and even Gryffindors.

“Potter,” Finn said, nodding.

Ginny waved; Natalie beamed at him and Evalyn just tilted her head a bit. Luna smiled in a vaguely happy sort of way and the others expressed various degrees of caution and interest.

“Harry Potter,” Harry said to Robins and Boot. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well,” Boot said. Robins grinned at him. She had a gap in her teeth and a mischievous sparkle in her eye that reminded him a little of the twins, except not as malicious.

“Just wanted to check—you’ve all gotten chocolate?” Harry said. This was the entire Slytherin second form and their friends; he had something of a responsibility to them.

Natalie nodded. “A professor came around and gave it to us.”

“Remus Lupin,” Ginny said, eyeing him. “My parents talked about him sometimes.”

Oh. _Oh._ _That_ Lupin. A friend of James Potter’s; Harry’s namesake and godfather. A surge of icy fury tore through his veins and he struggled to check it. The man he’d met on the train car had abandoned both Harry and his duties as godfather when he bolted and did his own merry thing for twelve years while Harry rotted with the Dursleys. Harry didn’t care if the man didn’t know. That wasn’t what a godfather did.

“Interesting,” he said, giving Ginny a faint nod of approval for the information. She was becoming a good Slytherin. “Glad you’re all right. Remember—Slytherins, you’ll be welcoming the first years after the Sorting at your end of the table.” He eyed Natalie, who was more or less the leader in the group by sheer force of personality. “Remember the rules.”

They all nodded, eyes a bit wide. Robins and Boot looked confused; Luna didn’t even seem to be paying attention.

Harry nodded at the Slytherins once more and caught up to his friends.

Justin was going on about Honeydukes. “—heard they sell all sorts of sweets there—Acid Pops, Cockroach Cluster, some really weird things—”

With a sinking feeling, Harry remembered—he’d never gotten the Dursleys to sign his permission form.

Possibly he could get James to sign it… yes, that should work. Legally his guardians were the Dursleys still, but James was his blood father and Lord Potter. Surely it would work.

Harry resolved to go to the Owlery first thing in the morning.

Slytherin gained eleven new students—including Astoria Greengrass and a halfblood she’d met on the train named Romilda Vane—in the Sorting this year. Harry clapped with the rest of his House and mustered the energy to smile politely in their direction.

Before the feast started, though, Dumbledore stood.

The hall fell silent.

“Welcome to another year at Hogwarts!” Dumbledore said, beaming at them. “I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is rather serious, I’d like to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast…”

“The only thing that might befuddle us is that garish orange,” Theo snarled under his breath, glaring at Dumbledore’s robes as if they’d done him a personal offense. Harry grinned; Pansy and Blaise snickered.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “As you will be aware after the search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business. They are stationed around the edges of the grounds, and while they are with us, I must make it plain that leaving the school without permission is absolutely forbidden. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises—or even Invisibility Cloaks,” he added blandly. Harry saw Jules and Ron exchange an angry glance. “They do not understand pleading or excuses, and so will not hesitate to attack. I look to our Prefects and Head Boy and Girl to ensure all students remain safe this year.

“On a happier note, we must welcome two new teachers this year: Professor Remus Lupin, who will be instructing you all in Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Lupin stood. He was even younger than he’d looked in the lower light of the train, despite the gray at his temples. He looked particularly shabby next to the other teachers. Harry looked away so his glare wouldn’t be too obvious.

“Look at Snape!” Blaise hissed.

Harry cut his eyes at his Head of House and raised his eyebrows. The Potions Master looked absolutely _livid_.

“Now _that’s_ interesting,” Theo said.

“And second, Rubeus Hagrid will be taking over as Professor of Care of Magical Creatures after Professor Kettleburn’s retirement.”

“Merlin,” Blaise muttered. “Of _course_ the oaf assigned a biting book.”

Harry tried not to laugh.

“And with that, let the feast begin!” Dumbledore said, as the tables suddenly became laden with food.

Pansy cocked her head as they all began serving themselves. “Harry, your father and Snape came to school at the same time, right?”

“That’s why they hate each other,” Harry said. “Jules and James won’t tell me much. James only said Snape was a _greasy, sniveling, untrustworthy slimeball_. He seems to think that of every Slytherin, though, so I took it with a shipload of salt.”

This earned him a few blank looks.

“Sorry,” he said. “Muggle expression.”

Daphne curled her lip slightly.

“Regardless,” Pansy said, “I believe I’ve heard the name Remus Lupin in connection with James Potter before. That they were friends in school. Might explain the rivalry.”

“He’s my godfather,” Harry said darkly. “Hadrian Remus Potter.”

Pansy’s eyes widened, and she nodded. “Heirs’ middle names are for godfathers, typically. Have you ever met him?”

“I asked James about him that first summer,” Harry said. “Lupin’s been… travelling, I think. James said he didn’t want to stay here after the last war. Black’s betrayal and all. Black was my godfather, but then James had it changed to Remus after… everything happened.” _Breathe. Breathe._

 “Who is Jules’ godfather, then?” Pansy said.

“Jules’ middle name is Charlus for James’ grandfather, I think. His godfather… was Peter Pettigrew, but he died, so I think James replaced him with Ethan Thorne.”

“Hmmm.” Pansy eyed Lupin with a speculative look while they ate. Harry slipped a few cut-up pieces of plain grilled steak into his pocket, wrapped in a napkin, for Eriss. She’d slip off to hunt and make friends with the other castle snakes later, but she’d be hungry when he got back to his dorm and let her out.

“What’s the thing with godparents?” he said. “I mean—Muggles do it, but they don’t seem to take it this seriously…”

Theo swallowed a bite of steak and kidney pie to answer. “Godparents are important to us. While there might often be only one godparent, if you have a godchild you’re expected to be a major part of their life and take them in if their real parents won’t or can’t care for them.”

“So with Black and Pettigrew out of the picture, James needed living people to be willing to stand in for him,” Harry said. “Is it common for twins to have different godfathers?”

Pansy frowned. “No.”

“Huh.” Harry let it drop, and to his relief, the conversation soon enough turned to things other than his ongoing family drama.  

Finally, the feast was over. Harry normally enjoyed Hogwarts feasts—the delight of being able to eat as much as he liked hadn’t worn off yet—but he was exhausted and he missed Eriss.

His familiar seemed to pick up on his bad mood as soon as he got her out of his trunk. _“What’s wrong? Do I need to bite anyone?”_

 _“No biting,”_ Harry said, grinning a little. He was careful to keep his back to Malfoy as he crawled into his bed, holding Eriss where she wouldn’t be seen, and then he pointed his wand at the curtains. They swished shut, and he set about casting silencing and protection wards around his bed. He’d practiced both extensively at the Leaky, and could cast a ward linked to a plain silver ring on his right hand that would heat up if someone tried to get into his things, as well as nail the offending person with a body-bind. It only worked once per casting, though, since he still wasn’t strong enough for long-term wards, nor did he know how to use runes to stabilize a long-term ward in place and hold power for it.

Eriss wound her way up and sat in her preferred position across his shoulders. _“But something did happen, yes?”_

Harry told her in a slightly halting tone about the dementor, and the things he’d seen, and lastly Lupin. No one else would be hearing about his visions… but Eriss was his familiar. He could trust her if no one else. And she’d been there after every one of his nightmares this summer.

When he was done, Eriss was furiously wrapping herself in circles around his shoulders and neck. _“Those stupid Muggles. And that godfather of yours. He’s stupid too.”_

 _“I’m never going back,”_ Harry said firmly. _“Ever.”_

_“Good. I might have to break your ‘no biting’ rule if you did.”_

Harry grinned again. She always managed to cheer him up.

_“Do I smell food?”_

_“You do indeed._ ” He pulled the wrapped bits of steak out of his pocket and handed them over. Eriss snapped them up greedily, careful not to accidentally bite him, and rolled over with a contented hiss.

_“Will you hunt tonight?”_

_“No. This was enough of a meal. Tomorrow, I’ll explore the castle while you go to your classes. I’m curious. This place feels like… old, old magic. I like it.”_

_“Good, because we’re going to spend a lot of time here.”_

Her laughter was soft and sibilant and comforting. Harry lay down to sleep like he usually did, curled on his side—an old habit from the cold nights in the cupboard—and Eriss worked her way into the curve of his torso and knees, where it was warmest. He rested his left hand on her back and let her presence soothe him.

 

_Helpless. Weak. Mornings cooking, days hiding in the library, afternoons working until his back ached, nights locked in the cupboard. No matter how hard he tried, his magic wouldn’t come. He couldn’t unlock the door, couldn’t move a quill, couldn’t even light a fire to keep himself warm. He was alone, he had no magic, he was a failed useless freak, an abomination, a waste of space—_

_“Master! Master! Wake up!”_

Harry sat upright with the echoes of a scream choking in his throat.

 _“Eriss,”_ he said, curling a hand around her. _“Eriss.”_

_“You were dreaming.”_

_“I know.”_

_“I couldn’t wake you.”_

_“I’m_ —” He wanted to apologize, he really did. But the words wouldn’t leave his throat.

Eriss nudged his jaw with her nose. _“I’m here.”_

_“Thank you.”_

_“Always. You’re mine.”_

He slowly lay back down and tried to control his breathing.

The nightmares had more or less gone away during second year as he worked hard on his Occlumency. Without a Legilimens to truly help him, Harry would have a more difficult time advancing to an intermediate level of Occlumency, but the lower levels were all about controlling one’s emotions, clearing one’s thoughts, and calming the subconscious. It helped with bad dreams a _lot_. Bloody dementor had to bring it all back.

He spent thirty minutes meditating in bed, calming his mind, and eventually let himself drift off to sleep again.


	4. New Year, New Teachers

Harry didn’t remember any other dreams, but he woke up grouchy and not at all well rested. Eriss vanished into one of the many cracks in the floor to start exploring the castle as she’d been talking about doing for months. As her tail disappeared into the stone, Harry half-hoped someone gave him an excuse to hex them today.

The familiar feeling of his school robes settling over his shoulders calmed him some, but he was still stone-faced and silent at breakfast, even when Snape came around with their schedules. Harry glanced his over. Potions with Gryffindor, Herbology with Hufflepuff, Defense on their own, History with Ravenclaw, Charms and Transfiguration on their own, and then he’d take Arithmancy and Ancient Runes with whatever other third years had elected to take them.

“Care with Gryffindor, brilliant,” Blaise griped, glaring at his paper. Even his plight wasn’t enough to make Harry grin, though it normally would have—Blaise was stuck in Care of Magical Creatures with only Pansy for backup against Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Bulstrode, and the Gryffindorks. “At least I have Runes with you, Harry…”

Harry nodded jerkily and went back to his eggs and toast.

Theo studied him with a faintly concerned expression.

After breakfast, they were on their way to their first Arithmancy lesson. Harry, Theo, and Daphne were taking it; the rest of the first-year Slytherins had either Divination or Care that period, so it was just the three of them heading for the base of the Astronomy Tower.

“You all right?” Theo muttered, dropping back next to Harry.

“What do you care?” Harry sneered.

Theo raised an eyebrow.

Harry winced. “Er—nightmares. It’s not—aimed at you.” As close to an apology as he would or could get.

Understanding flashed across Theo’s face. Not pity—never pity, thank Merlin. “Bloody dementors. You should ask Hannah if there’s a spell you can defend against them with.”

“Good plan.” Harry added it to his mental To Do list, right behind _find an excuse to hex someone_ and _get on a broom._

Daphne caught up to them, towing Hermione and Justin in her wake. “I am not going to sit with idiots in Arithmancy,” she said, glaring at all four of them. “ _Certainly_ not that imbecilic Macmillan, or the Patil priss. Are we clear?”

“Which Patil twin is this?” Hermione said.

“Does it matter?” Daphne said nastily. “They’re both irritating.”

Harry let his friends bicker.

They filed into the Arithmancy classroom. Harry looked around, interest spiking through his bad mood. It took up the entire bottom level of the Tower; the round walls were lined with alternating windows and chalkboards. All the desks had chalkboard surfaces and were arranged in groups of six by each big wall chalkboard, facing the center of the room. Harry, Theo, Justin, Hermione, and Daphne quickly took over the one nearest the door and watched the other students file in.

To Harry’s surprise, there were several upper years in the group. Including Hestia Carrow, Miles Bletchley, and Noah Bole.

Noah was on decent terms with Harry and grinned at his group; Bletchley nodded in their direction and Hestia ignored them altogether, but the older Slytherins took the cluster next to Harry’s.

“What are you lot doing here?” Theo said, raising an eyebrow at them.

“I dropped History and Herbology after the OWLs,” Bletchley said. “I figured it couldn’t hurt to get a few years of Arithmancy and Runes in, even if I don’t test in them.”

“I’m taking the Arithmancy and Ancient Runes OWLs as a sixth year,” Noah said. “Usually when someone starts OWL classes late, it’s a separate group, but there’s too few students in Arithmancy or Runes for that to work. So here we are.”

Harry nodded; it made sense. And Noah had a point. The classroom was barely half filled by the time class officially started, according to the clock. From his year, he saw Anthony, Sue, and Lisa—all of whom smiled and waved when Hermione, Harry, and Theo looked their way—sitting with Alice Park, Jessica Banderos, and Stephen Cornfoot. Ernie Macmillan and Susan Bones sat with a few older Hufflepuffs and there was a cluster of older Ravenclaws next to them: Aaron Jigger, Cho Chang, Mason Goshawk, and Liam Linus. There was even a group of four older Gryffindors, among them Alicia Spinnet and no one else Harry recognized.

He pulled _Numerology and Grammatica_ , _A Study of Number Properties_ , and _Practical Applications of Runes_ out of his bag. All three textbooks were dense and complicated. He’d managed to get through the first two over the summer and would’ve finished the third if he hadn’t gotten sidetracked by its discussions of the use of Arithmancy in spell creation and ordered four other books on related subjects. Arithmancy looked so _useful._

The door flew open with a bang, and a short middle-aged witch with a black bob cut and silver wire-frame glasses marched inside. “Good morning, class.”

There was a general mumble.

“No, no, no! That will not do. You will respond _Good morning, Professor Vector_ when I greet you. Precision! Efficiency! We waste no time in my class! Try again. Good morning, class.”

“Good morning, Professor Vector,” they chorused, in near-perfect unison. Harry was already sitting up straighter. He liked Professor Vector.

“Much better.” Vector stopped in the center of the room and paced a circle, her sharp brown eyes picking over all of them one by one. Harry got the sense that she was quite brilliant, missed little, and didn’t like people much. “First things first: there will be no slacking in my class. You are here to work hard and learn. Arithmancy—the use of numbers in magic—is neither easy nor safe. If you fail to pay attention, you may lose a finger, or you may die. I require spelled glasses as a result of an experiment in arithmantic spell creation four years ago, and I consider myself lucky to maintain my sight at all. If any one of you becomes a danger to yourself or those around you by not studying and preparing for class, you will receive one warning and one warning only, and after that you are done. I do not _care_ what it will do to your OWLs or NEWTs. I care about no one getting splattered across the ceiling, because that means more work for the house-elves and more paperwork for me. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Professor Vector,” they said. Harry wanted to grin. This was _much_ better than History of Magic.

“A few other housekeeping things before we move on to your preliminary exam. No, don’t panic, it will not count towards a grade, only for me to see where you are.” Vector’s piercing gaze swept over Harry’s group again. He sat up straighter under her attention and wondered what House she’d been in in Hogwarts. His money was on Slytherin or Ravenclaw. “First of all, if anyone here needs help, my office is open five to nine p.m. weekdays and eleven a.m. to four p.m. Saturdays. I will either help you myself or connect you with a tutor from a previous class. If anyone wishes private tutoring or specialized study, come to me and I’ll see what I can do.

“Second, if anyone wishes to drop this class, you have until November to do so and transfer into Care of Magical Creatures or Divination. After that you will not be permitted to join a different class and will have to wait until next year.

“Third, I accept no late work and do not allow anyone to retake examinations except under extenuating circumstances, which I reserve the right to grant or not.

“Fourth, many of you will have heard of the study of the future using numbers. This is hogwash that will not be taught in my class. No ifs, ands, or buts. If you want namby-pamby whining about the future, go take Divination and stop wasting my time. The future is what you make of it.”

_Very possibly Slytherin._

“And finally, many of you will not like to hear this, but if you can’t accept it your mind is narrower than the eye of a needle and you shouldn’t be in this class in the first place, so listen closely.” She crossed her arms and seemed to be looking towards the Slytherins. “We will be using a number of Muggle texts and discoveries in this class, because wizards disregard mathematics beyond basic arithmetic as useless unless you are an arithmancer or a spellcrafter, whereas Muggles depend on mathematics to create devices that compensate for their lack of magic and so have by necessity focused much more effort on mathematics than we have. The mass disregard for mathematics among the magical community is a ridiculous and outdated one, but if I had a week I couldn’t list all the reasons why, so we’ll save that for a later lecture and focus on the practicalities. Muggle-born students have a distinct advantage in this class, as do any halfbloods who were raised in Muggle school systems. Muggles grow up in yearly math classes. Wizard children do not. Those of you with exposure to mathematics, I expect you to work hard to advance your knowledge, and be polite about not holding it over others. Those of you who do not, I expect you to work just as hard if not harder. By the end of this year the lot of you will be on equal footing.”

Harry sneaked a glance at Hestia. She looked like she’d just bitten into an apple only to find it rotten. Theo looked mostly curious, Daphne icy cool, Hermione excited, and Justin interested.

Vector spun another circle, and when there were no objections, she waved her wand and a packet of magically bound paper appeared on everyone’s desk. “Begin.”

Harry pulled out a disguised gel pen and flipped the packet open. His stomach plummeted. He really should’ve paid more attention in math classes, even though he’d had to fail all the tests and worksheets to match Dudley—this was vaguely familiar math to him, but at the same time, he was really not confident about being able to find the answer…

For an hour and a half, Harry struggled through one problem after another. Several times he got lost and had to erase his ink with a quick charm and start over. Over half the problems he worked about halfway and then couldn’t figure out how to finish and so left half-done. Of those he did complete, he was sure of his answers on only three.

“That was horrible,” Theo muttered as they handed their tests in. Harry nodded, grimacing.

Justin shrugged when they looked at him. “Math is important in business, my parents always told me to focus on it… I mean, it wasn’t _easy_ , but I’ve at least seen most of that before.”

Hermione opened her mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. “I thought it was rather easy, but my school had a strong focus on science and math fields,” she said, seeming to choose her words carefully. “So I’ve a strong background in math. How about you, Harry?”

 _By Merlin, she’s curbing her know-it-all-ishness._ “Eh… I’m not confident,” he said. Paused. These were his friends, no one was close enough to eavesdrop… he could reveal something small. “My—Petunia and Vernon got angry if I bested Dudley on exam scores. It was hard to balance paying attention in class with deliberately getting bad enough grades to not get punished at home for—for cheating.”

“That’s horrible,” Hermione said, aghast. “That’s—denying you an education! How _dare_ —”

“My parents thought my accidental magic was just random weirdness,” Justin said, sizing Harry up anew. “But your aunt and uncle… just because of magic?”

Harry shrugged, trying to pretend it didn’t bother him much.

“Suddenly I understand the Statute of Secrecy a lot better,” Justin muttered. Harry realized abruptly that most of his friends didn’t know the extent of what he’d suffered. That he hadn’t usually gotten enough to eat, that he’d had Dudley’s old clothes, that the twins and Blaise and Pansy and Theo had to come break him out after first year—but not the physical abuse. They hadn’t seen the clothes or the internalized what living in a boot cupboard really involved. He’d never gone into detail about the skimpy meals, the long hours of chores, cooking all their meals…

Maybe he should tell them.

Just the thought filled him with horror. It was _his_ private shame. _His_ issue to deal with. _His_ demon. No one else’s. They didn’t need to know.

 _They’re my friends… maybe they don’t_ need _to know, but should…_

“I expect you all to be well versed on chapter 1 of _Numberology and Grammatica_ for Thursday,” Vector said. “In this class, we do reading and independent study on your own time, and practice problems here, where I can help. You may collaborate as much as you wish in class or out of it except on tests. If you want to sit in the corner and cast silencing charms and work alone, fine. If you want to rope seven other people into a verbal quiz challenge to get through the problems, also fine. I’ve had both methods work splendidly for different students. I’m here to teach you, and that won’t work if I force you into a learning style that doesn’t work for you. Questions are encouraged. There are no stupid inquiries. What seems like a simple “should that be positive or negative?” might save your life.” She paused and looked around to make sure her words were being taken seriously. They were. Harry had never heard a class this quiet other than McGonagall’s or Snape’s.

“Dismissed.”

They hurried out. Harry’s head was spinning.

“Of course Muggle-borns have an advantage,” Daphne muttered.

Justin looked at her, a little disappointed. “You lot have an advantage in everything else. With all the summer practice you do, how could Hermione or I keep up if we weren’t your friends and invited over to study? It’s hardly unfair for Muggle-borns to have _one_ class where our heritage isn’t a drawback.”

Daphne looked startled to hear a rebuke come from the usually fairly mild-mannered Justin.

“He’s got a point,” Theo said.

“I wonder…” Harry mused, thinking about how they could balance the scales for purebloods and Muggle-borns. A complicated problem, but one he thought he was pretty well-equipped to handle, being a halfblood Heir to an Ancient and Noble House who’d been raised Muggle. Although he was… possibly… biased when it came to questions of how well suited Muggle parents were to raise magical children. It was probably good he’d met Justin and Hermione.

“Herbology next?” Justin said.

“Yep.” Theo smirked. “Time to go laugh at Malfoy trying to keep dirt out from under his nails.”

“I wish I could see it,” Hermione said. “Tell me later, I’ve got Transfiguration—see you!”

She hurried away.

 

Harry’s first Ancient Runes class was two days later. He walked into the classroom on the Transfiguration hall with Blaise, Theo, Hermione, Neville, and Pansy. This room was set up in a much more traditional style than Vector’s—all the desks were in neat rows facing a chalkboard. White chalk symbols covered the chalkboard. Harry squinted at them—he thought he recognized a few of the symbols… or more than a few… wait—that stupid “dragonology” book Dudley had gotten for his birthday two years ago had contained an alphabet that looked a bit like this…

Other students filed in. Once more, it was a mix of about half upper years and half third years. Both Carrow twins were in the class. Harry hid his wince. He’d have to be extra careful. Neither of them liked him.

“Welcome to the study of Ancient Runes.”

The voice came from everywhere. All the students, looked around, trying to spot the source—Harry knew they wouldn’t see one; he’d scanned the room like he always did, out of habit, and the professor wasn’t here.

There was a _bang_ , and a plain-looking witch with salt-and-pepper hair appeared on the desk at the front of the class. Several people jumped. She grinned at them, looking altogether too energetic. “Does anyone know how I did that?”

“Apparition?” someone suggested.

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard Harry wondered if she’d given herself a headache. “Honestly,” she hissed. “It’s not that hard to read _Hogwarts, A History!”_

“No, Apparition is impossible in Hogwarts. Anyone else?”

“Disillusionment Charm,” Hestia said.

The professor pointed at Hestia. “Good guess, but no. I’m not carrying a wand. No charms.”

Silence.

“A runeward, children.” The professor pointed at her feet. “Drawn on this desk in plain old ink with a quill ten minutes ago. I stood up here, activated the runes by stepping into them, and waited invisibly while you all sat down. _Homenum revelio_ would’ve skipped right over me, as would all other Ministry-approved spells to find the hidden.”

There were many wide eyes. Harry’s included. He knew runes were used to anchor wards, and he had a good sense of how, in theory, but it was still impressive to see such an application.

“Runes are the basis of Portkeys. Runes are sunken into the handles of your brooms. Runestones secure Hogwarts from the outside world, prevent Apparition and Portkeys from working on its bounds, protect those inside, and prevent outside spying. Rune-based spells can hold their power for years or centuries, can be used to create new spells and rituals, do not require wands, and are limited only by your imagination and creativity.”

She grinned around at them. “My name is Professor Babbling. I’m sure you’ve heard this several times before, but this class won’t be easy. I have no qualms in telling you that at first it won’t even be fun. Between now and Yule—sorry, Christmas—you’ll learn the alphabets and fundamental principles of runes derived from Tamil, Sanskrit, Ancient Greek, Ancient Egyptian, Gaelic, Arabic, Chinese, Anglo-Saxon, and Hebrew. Each has its own unique property and each can be used and combined in different ways. For example, the spell I created today draws heavily from a runic concealment spell drawn in Greek runes, but I modified it with Tamil and Gaelic symbols to adapt it to modern charmcasting and deflect spells like _homenum revelio_.”

A tentative hand crept up.

“Yes?” Babbling looked delighted, but Susan Bones just looked terrified. “Er—ma’am—it doesn’t seem possible to memorize all that—before Christmas!”

“You’ll have the _properties_ memorized,” Babbling said. “You’ll have the _runes_ in your brains, where you’re at least familiar with how to draw them, but that’s what this is for.” She kicked at her copy of _A Dictionary of Runes._ “Most witches and wizards find a runic language or three they work best with, and stick to that after their first year. This year’s exams will cover the foundations of the course—a basic exposure to and ability to talk about and attempt using runes from all the big languages. After that, you’ll be assigned a task and you can use whatever runes and chains you wish to accomplish it. But I get ahead of myself. For today, open _Ancient Runes Made Easy_ —to clarify, this book should really be titled _Ancient Runes Made Slightly Less Terrifying_ —to page seventeen. I expect you’ve all done the assigned reading. Spend five minutes going over the discussion questions listed in the text, and then we’ll be having class debate. Participation points will be part of your final grade.”

Harry had been looking forward to Runes for a while, and this was not disappointing him. Rune rituals were the basis of wards and curse-breaking, not to mention crafting one’s own magical tools, as most Potions Masters did, and vital to the creation of new spells. He’d been doing a lot of summer reading at Blaise’s house. Runes were neither Light nor Dark in the Ministry’s eyes, thank Merlin, although the rituals one did with them could be and runic blood rituals were _definitely_ dark.

Class debate was interesting, and proved he was definitely at the top of the class already, with Hermione maybe a bit ahead and Hestia on his heels. She frowned whenever Harry or Hermione jumped in with a clever insight or interesting question, which wasn’t actually all that often; Harry preferred to watch such discussions and Hermione was clearly biting her tongue to stop herself dominating the conversation with all her encyclopedic knowledge. Harry really needed to ask her if she had a photographic memory one of these days.

 

Merely three days into term, Malfoy appeared back in the common room with a bandaged arm and a swagger.

Blaise dropped his quill. “Oh no.”

“What?” Harry said, but then Malfoy threw himself theatrically onto a sofa opposite them.

“It very near killed me!” he moaned.

Blaise opened his mouth and Theo looked like he was gearing up for verbal battle, but Harry silenced Blaise with a look and Theo with a kick. If Malfoy wanted to run around asking for attention, he could to it somewhere else. They weren’t going to fall for his terribly see-through ploy.

When everyone just ignored him, Malfoy sat up a little straighter. “Don’t you want to know _what_?” he said.

“I presume a hippogriff, since I hear those were in Care today,” Harry said as blandly as possible.

“Yes! It near took my arm off, it did!”

“Oh, so we’ve gone from nearly killing you to nearly taking off your arm?” Pansy said innocently.

Theo coughed to hide his laughter.

Malfoy flushed slightly. “Yes—well—it certainly _attacked me_ —great big bloody monster, it was, the oaf should never have let those _things_ loose near students—”

“Jules Potter handled it quite well,” Blaise said. “He went for a flight, in fact…”

“Really,” Harry said, with as much interest as if they were discussing the weather.

“Mmm.” Blaise eyed his Potions notes critically. Their first double Potions with Gryffindor was the next day, and none of the Slytherins dared be unprepared. Harry had already sent Finn Sullivan, a gifted Potions student, over to light into the first years on the subject, and they looked properly terrified. “Hagrid’s instructions were specifically to not insult the beast, I believe… he may not have wand rights, or any idea how to teach, but the man certainly knows magical creatures… Harry, what’s calcite do again?”

“Binding agent. In the Shrinking Solution I think we’ll be doing, it reacts with the flour to neutralize the caustic properties that result of a combination of three parts powdered griffin claw and one part Merylope egg white.”

“Thanks.” Blaise started writing again.

Malfoy glared at them all. “I’ll have that beast up on charges!”

“Why?” Harry said idly.

“Well—it attacked me! Obviously!”

“Did you do something to provoke its attack?” Harry flipped through his _Rune Dictionary_ and worked on the Tamil script translation he needed to hand in on Monday.

Pansy snickered softly. “He insulted it first, and disregarded the instructions.”

“Sounds like you rather deserved it,” Harry said.

“Malfoy, stop whining,” Flint said, cuffing Malfoy on the back of the head as he walked by. “We need you on a broom so we can show up Gryffindor. Pomfrey regrew the Other Potter’s entire set of arm bones overnight last year, she can fix the little scratch I heard about from Care in a second.”

“The match is going to be nasty weather anyway,” Bletchley argued, drifting over. “Can’t we just use Malfoy’s injury to skip out?”

Flint leered. “No. Oliver Wood claimed in front of my entire Transfiguration class today that Slytherin would take any excuse to get out of the match because we can’t handle flying in shit conditions. We’ve got to prove them wrong—we’re bloody well taking the Cup this year!”

“Ah,” Bletchley said. “In that case, Malfoy, get over yourself or I’ll hex… on second thought, I’ll let Potter at you. Potter, weren’t you learning some interesting spells this summer?”

“Why, yes,” Harry said, giving Malfoy an evil smile. “Yes I was.”

Malfoy glared at both of them and flounced off to the dormitories.

“Prat,” Bletchley muttered.

 

Harry hated Professor Remus J. Lupin.

The man was even-tempered and polite, smiling more or less kindly at the Slytherins as they filed into his classroom and took their seats. “No need to take out your books,” he said. “Today’s lesson will be practical.”

Theo grinned. Harry didn’t. The man had the gall to stand up there and _smile_ at them and act all kind and caring. Pretending he wasn’t the sort of negligent coward who bolted to the continent because he couldn’t handle grief, and left his godson in abysmal conditions for twelve years of his life, and even now made no effort to talk to Harry about it.

Quirrel had occasionally run mild hands-on challenges, one student against another, in very controlled circumstances—this was different. Hermione and Neville had been annoyingly tight-lipped yesterday about what exactly the lesson was going to be. Practical at least was an interesting sign.

“Follow me, please.”

Harry eyed Lupin’s shabby robes as he led the class through the halls. He looked better than he had on the train, at least.

“Wonder what we’re doing?” Theo said, watching the professor’s back.

Blaise shrugged. “Antagonizing Professor Snape?”

Lupin’s shoulders flinched slightly. Harry cocked his head. Had the Professor heard them? They should’ve been out of earshot, but maybe he had a hearing enhancement charm. If so, why had he reacted like that? _Were_ they actually going to see Professor Snape?

To Harry’s surprise, Lupin led them into the staff room. Harry had been in here once before. He looked around with the same level of interest as everyone else, though, and Theo did too, so neither of them would give away their spying from the end of the previous year. The wardrobe where he, Theo, Ronald, and Jules had hidden was now shaking.

There was, however, no sign of Professor Snape.

The wardrobe jumped and banged against the wall. Only Crabbe and Goyle flinched; the rest of the Slytherins eyed it warily.

“No need to worry,” Lupin said. “It’s just a boggart.”

Harry kind of thought that was reason to worry. He’d only read about boggarts a few times, but he remembered Hannah talking about them before—

“Who can tell me what a boggart is?”

Theo’s hand went in the air.

“Mr. Nott?” Was that a hint of displeasure in the professor’s voice? He was so even-keeled, Harry couldn’t quite tell.

“Shapeshifters,” Theo said, eyeing the wardrobe. He didn’t look overly nervous, but he was also not relaxed. “They take on the shape of whatever you most fear.”

“Excellent. Yes. Boggarts like small, dark spaces—” _So the opposite of me, then_ — “such as wardrobes, the gaps beneath beds, trunks—I once met one that lodged itself into a grandfather clock. This one moved in a few days ago, and I asked the headmaster to leave it be to give my students some practice. There’s a fair number of us here, which gives us an advantage—have you spotted it, Harry?”

It almost seemed to pain Lupin to look at him, which was—immensely satisfying. Harry didn’t let his expression change. “There’s a number of us here, and the boggart won’t know what to turn into.”

“Precisely.” Lupin drew his wand. “The charm that repels a boggart is one that requires a certain force of mind. The incantation is _riddikulus_ , and as you say it, you must force the boggart to become something you find amusing. What will really finish the beast is laughter. The antithesis of fear.”

Interesting. Harry had read something a bit… counter to that explanation in a book in the Zabini library over the summer—a rare, old tome titled _Esoteric Incantations_. He’d have to ask Blaise if one of the Zabini house-elves could bring it to Hogwarts so Harry could do a little of his own research.

“Now—” Lupin began, but Theo raised his hand.

“Excuse me, sir, are we going to have to face that thing in front of the entire class?” he said. “And have our worst fears revealed to our classmates?”

Oh. Surely he wouldn’t—

But judging by Lupin’s expression, that was exactly what he’d meant to do.

Harry felt sick to his stomach. He had a decent idea what his boggart would manifest as… and he didn’t want anyone else to see it. Hell, _he_ didn’t want to see it.

“The Gryffindors were willing—” Lupin began.

“We are not Gryffindors, Professor,” Harry said as politely as he could manage in this moment, which he feared was not actually all that polite, but didn’t care.

Lupin’s expression shuttered a bit. “No. I suppose not. Very well… if you all would wait outside, you may go one at a time. As your teacher, I give you my word that whatever I see here will remain confidential. Will that suffice?”

“Thank you, sir,” Blaise said.

Malfoy sneered at the shabby professor and left the room, trailed by his cronies. He’d been in a horrible mood ever since Flint told him off in the common room for his arm. Harry had the strong sense that the hippogriff drama was not over but at least he’d quit wearing the bandage and griping.

“Who would like to go first?”

They all looked at each other.

Harry sighed. Might as well get it over with. “I will, sir.”

“Very good, Harry,” Lupin said, smiling.

The rest of the Slytherins filed out the door. Harry eyed Lupin warily. Lupin eyed him back. “Harry, I…”

“Mr. Potter,” Harry interrupted.

“What?”

“I’d prefer if you called me Mr. Potter, _Professor_. It’s more appropriate.”

Lupin looked flabbergasted. “I’m your godfather.”

Harry smiled thinly. He’d written James and gotten some answers. Limited though they were, he could use them. He wasn’t going to give this man a _centimeter._ “Only because Sirius Black betrayed you… sorry, _us_. And—forgive me, Professor Lupin, but we’ve never met. If you wished to be on a first-name basis with me, you ought to have perhaps done your duty as a godfather and been a part of my childhood.”

Lupin seemed to age years before Harry’s eyes. “I am truly sorry, H—Mr. Potter. Had I known what you endured…”

“Do you know now?” Harry said, genuinely curious. No one knew all the details, not even Theo.

“Well—James and Albus both told me what they know…”

Harry snorted. That told him all _he_ needed to know. “I see. I’m sure it was an entirely accurate account and not at all biased or altered. Well, in that case, Professor—shall we proceed?”

“Practice the incantation and wand movement for me, if you would, Mr. Potter.”

Harry swished his wand just as he’d seen Lupin do. _“Riddikulus.”_

“Excellent.”

Harry’s stomach churned. He wished Eriss was here, but she’d gone off with some of the other castle snakes to learn how to hunt rats.

The only thing he could think of to take care of his probable boggart would not be a good thing to do in front of Lupin.

“Wand at the ready… _Aperio!”_

The wardrobe opened with a bang, and Harry stepped out.

Real Harry’s fist tightened unconsciously around his holly wand. His heart pounded in his ears and drowned out all other sound. The boggart-Harry inched closer. Its face was bruised; it was wearing Dudley’s old clothes, too big and stained and torn in places, worn down to bits in others. Two broken halves of a holly wand were clutched in its trembling fist. Desperation and _tears_ marred its face. The fear threatening to swamp Harry at the thought of ever looking like this, ever _being_ this, was offset just a little by disgust.

He snapped to with a start and concentrated fiercely on the only thing he could think of—on turning this thing into something that amused him. Something that didn’t have power over him anymore.

 _“Riddikulus,”_ he got out.

The spell hit the boggart, and for a second—just a second—the boggart-Harry looked exactly the same—except now he was boggart-Jules.

Merlin. _“Riddikulus,_ ” Harry said again, concentrating harder, and forced the boggart to become a life-size pink-and-yellow blow-up cartoon version of his bruised, battered, helpless, desperate Dursley-owned alter ego. He could only hope Lupin hadn’t seen the first change.

Lupin waved his wand and banished the boggart back into the wardrobe. It slammed shut. “Good work, Mr. Potter. If I may ask, why did you cast the spell twice?”

Harry pasted a puzzled look on his face. “It didn’t work the first time. The boggart was still—still—me.” He ducked his head, letting his shoulders tremble a bit, letting the man think him vulnerable…

“Of course,” Lupin said, relaxing. “How silly of me—yes, you’ve done well, Mr. Potter, you may go—until next time—”

Harry nodded and left the classroom as quickly as he could without running. Lupin was pathetically easy to fool.

Goyle went in next. Harry steeled himself and leaned against the wall, ignoring their curious looks and fully aware that he couldn’t show just how hard that had been.

Crabbe went. Then Bulstrode. Then Pansy. She came back out looking a little pale but still smirking.

“Strings,” Theo whispered.

Harry looked at his friend. Theo’s eyes were closed and his brow furrowed tightly.

Blaise went into the staff lounge.

“Theo?” Harry said.

Theo glanced at him. “I know what it’ll be,” he said quietly. “I think. But I don’t know how to make it funny. Or at least… not something he’d find funny.”

“If it amuses you, it’ll work,” Harry said, just as quietly. “And… I think it’s less about actual laughter and more… forcing it into a shape that doesn’t have power over you anymore. Disgust was what got me past mine.”

Theo nodded slowly. “All right…”

Blaise came back out, breathing a bit hard but none the worse for wear. “You’ve got it,” he told Theo. “It’s… you’ll be fine.”

Malfoy went, then Daphne, then Bulstrode. It was Theo’s turn next.

“He’s got to keep it to himself.” Harry felt like he was reminding himself as much as Theo. “Whatever he sees, he can’t tell anyone.”

Theo squared his shoulders. “Right.”

Blaise took his place against the wall next to Harry.

“Want to talk about it?” Harry said, voice low. He didn’t—but he could listen.

Blaise cut his eyes left, making sure the rest of the group was too far away to hear. Daphne and Pansy were sitting against the wall. Their cautious truce and grudging mutual respect of the year before seemed to slowly growing into actual friendship, and they were talking in low voices. Malfoy’s gray eyes were distant and Crabbe and Goyle and Bulstrode had pulled a pack of cards from somewhere.

He shook his head. “Not here. Later…”

They both looked up sharply when the door cracked open and Theo stalked back out. His face was set as hard as the stone walls of the corridor.

Lupin followed, closing the staff room behind him.

All of them stood up straighter, giving him the respect due a teacher, save Malfoy, who slouched and sneered seemingly out of habit. Blaise snorted softly.

“You’ve all done well today,” Lupin said, smiling. Again, it didn’t reach his eyes. He still seemed weary and older than his years and unwilling to look at Harry. “Homework… please read the chapter of your textbook covering boggarts and summarize it, to be handed in Monday. That will be all.”

Blaise was the first to step away from the group and start heading back towards the dungeons. Harry and Theo followed, and then the rest of their class, everyone talking quietly about things that weren’t boggarts and fears. Harry’s mind was still full of the image of Jules Potter every bit as bruised, helpless, and desperate as he had once been. Thinking about that was easier than thinking about seeing _himself_ as he’d once been—and remembering.

_I’m never going back._

Malfoy and Bulstrode got out their Care textbooks once they were down in the dungeons, grumbling about something. Crabbe and Goyle sat near them doing nothing even resembling homework. Blaise headed straight for the dormitory.

Theo marched inside and threw himself onto his bed, face pressed into the pillows.

Harry eyed him. “Duel?” A duel actually sounded nice right now—a chance to burn off some of his excess energy…

Theo flipped over so he was lying on his back. “Maybe later.”

_“Master?”_

Harry turned when he heard Eriss’ voice, and couldn’t help the relief that hit him. _“Eriss.”_

 _“I could feel you’re upset.”_ The snake slid out from under his bed. Harry picked her up and she wound around his shoulders while he climbed into Theo’s bed and sat by his friend’s feet, leaning up against the headboard. _“What happened?”_

 _“A boggart,”_ Harry said. Blaise crossed the distance to Theo’s bed and crawled up with them, sitting next to Theo’s pillows and leaning on the headboard. _“It shows what you most fear.”_

Eriss fell quiet, but her weight was a comfort.

Blaise took a deep breath. “What did you see?”

A few seconds of silence passed.

 “A puppet,” Theo said, almost too quietly to hear. He stared at the ceiling. “Of myself… dancing on strings.”

“Who was holding them?” Harry said.

Theo shrugged a little. “Didn’t have a face. The fear was the strings, not the puppeteer.”

 “How’d you… you know.”

“Made the puppet strangle the puppeteer with the strings,” Theo said, smirking. It looked a little forced, but it was better than that dead-eyed expression he’d worn a few seconds ago. “Lupin definitely looked a little startled by that one…”

Harry bumped his leg lightly against Theo’s. Not for long—he was still stuck on that horrible mirror universe image of himself, the broken wand and dull eyes, and it made the thought of touching other people a nasty one—but he made himself do it. Like Theo had done for him before. A silent say of saying he was there.

“I saw my mother,” Blaise said.

Theo tipped his head back so he could look upside down at Blaise.

“She was holding a knife. She told me…” Blaise drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them. It was the first time Harry had seen Blaise’s carefully languid posture break for any emotion that indicated vulnerability. “She told me she had to do it. She was pointing the knife at my throat when I cast the spell.”

 “I’m sorry, mate,” Theo said.

“She wouldn’t,” Blaise said. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “She _wouldn’t._ ”

“Boggarts are powerful,” Harry said quietly. He hadn’t expected it to be that… _real._

 “How’d you get past it?” Theo said.

Blaise’s expression lightened a little. “I made the knife into a handful of cooked spaghetti. It was all I could think of.”

Theo actually snickered a little. “Nice one.”

“Harry?” Blaise said.

Harry drew his arms around himself. He didn’t…

“If you don’t want to talk about it, don’t,” Blaise said. “You two clam up about a lot of things—but sometimes it can help to let it out, you know?”

The words wouldn’t come for a long time. _I can trust them. I can trust them. I can trust them_ , Harry told himself, and Eriss quietly nudged at his pulse point with her nose, and finally—

“I saw me,” he said, looking down at the bedsheets. “Me… holding my broken wand, back in my cousin’s cast-off worn-out clothes. Bruised again. Like… like I was back with the Muggles.”

It was Theo’s turn to lightly tap Harry’s ankle with his shin. “It’ll never happen. Even if your wand breaks. Remember? Wandless magic. Because you’re a bloody prodigy.”

 _“And I would bite them if they hurt you again,_ ” Eriss said. That brought a little grin to Harry’s face. She was coming along quickly in her ability to understand English.

Blaise raised an eyebrow.

“She said she’ll bite the Dursleys if they try to hurt me again,” Harry said.

Theo pointed at Eriss. “I like you.”

Eriss hissed a laugh. Blaise and Theo knew the sound of her laughter by now, untranslated.

“What did you do?” Blaise said.

“I… kind of turned it into Jules.”

Theo let out a bark of surprised laughter. “You _what_? In front of your father’s best friend?”

“Only for a second,” Harry said. “It was the first thing I thought of—then I turned it into a plastic blow-up cartoon version of me.”

“Did Lupin notice?” Blaise said.

Harry sneered. “I don’t think so. He’s as observant as a bloody brick.”

“Good,” Theo said, still grinning. “That one might have been a little hard to explain.”

“I’m so glad my boggart brings you such amusement,” Harry drawled.

Theo kicked him, and managed to knock his elbow on Blaise’s hip in the process. Blaise yanked the pillow out from under Theo’s head and whacked him with it, but when he went back for a second hit Theo deflected and the pillow nailed Harry in the face.

“Oh, it’s on,” Harry said, grinning, and grabbed a pillow of his own.

The pillow fight soon devolved into a friendly three-way duel until all of them were exhausted.

Harry crawled into bed with Eriss in the curve of his torso, as usual. He sank into Occlumency mind-clearing and emotion-sorting exercises, visualizing his various emotions as a complicated tangle of colored liquids and teasing them apart one by one until he could separate each into a jar and examine them individually. Only when his mind was smooth and still and the memories of his friends’ laughter sat closest to the surface did he relax and go to sleep.

Surprisingly, he had no nightmares. 

 

Snape, as usual, paired Harry with Neville in Potions. He announced, however, that this year they would be brewing separately rather than in shared cauldrons, as he needed to get a better idea of individual work now that he was confident they had “some level of fundamental instruction drilled into your stone-thick skulls”.

Harry almost unconsciously called on his Occlumency exercises as he sank into the meditative state good brewing called for. He’d only figured out how to consistently find this state at the end of last year; you had to be just relaxed enough to feel the potion’s magic, and just alert enough to process all the changes as quickly as possible. It was slow magic, ritual magic, a delicate balance. You could make good potions by following a recipe. You could only make stellar potions by feel.

Ritual magic. He wondered suddenly what would happen if he combined potions with runes. Perhaps written into his cauldron’s insides, or on the outside of solid ingredients like moonstones… or even traced in the air over the potion with his wand…

A problem for another time. Harry brought his attention back to the potions classroom, stopped Neville from adding his calcite too early with an absent-minded explanation of why you should wait, and decided his potion felt a bit pasty; he needed to give it one counterclockwise stir to separate the solids…

“Time.”

Harry blinked and settled fully into his body. Huh. He’d never spaced out quite that much while brewing before. He felt well rested, oddly enough, at least mentally; his magic was kind of spent but not unpleasantly. And he’d done quite a good job, he realized with not a little pride as he put a bit of his potion in a vial for grading. One of his best, actually, and he’d always been an exemplary Potions student. Seemed Occlumency helped with more than guarding your mind.

A check on Neville’s potion proved the Gryffindor was still slowly but steadily improving. It was far from perfect but Harry could feel the balance of it and knew it would at least work.

That was also new, he realized—sensing someone else’s potion with that degree of accuracy.

They handed their potions in. Snape picked up Harry’s and examined first it and then Harry with more interest than he’d expressed in Harry since early first year. “An excellent potion, Mr. Potter. Three points to Slytherin,” he said.

Slightly stunned, Harry nodded a thank-you and walked out, falling in with Neville, Theo, Pansy, Blaise, Daphne, and Hermione on the way. Hermione was engaged in a surprisingly spirited debate with Pansy and Daphne over fashion, of all things. Harry wondered if she’d decided to apply her formidable intellect to fashion and create a trend-predicting algorithm, or something. He wouldn’t put it past her.

 _“Petrificus totalus_ ,” he heard, and couldn’t spin around to block in time. The spell hit him between the shoulder blades and then he was falling, stiff as a board, and Neville was trying to catch him, and every nerve in Harry’s body was _screaming_ every brain cell was _panicked_ because he hated being trapped, helpless, weak, bound—

Someone cast the counter and Harry scrambled to his feet, breathing hard and eyes searching for the culprit. He barely realized he’d dropped the damper on their color and didn’t care.

Seamus Finnegan and Ron Weasley were laughing from the group of Gryffindors.

Harry’s hand tightened on the holly wand until his bones creaked. No Dark magic. No curses. Nothing too nasty.

 _“Absssidue dentiss ampla_ ,” he hissed through gritted teeth, barely noticing a hint of Parseltongue creeping into his voice, just as Theo whipped out his own wand and cast _“Incarné tous ongles_.”

Seconds later, Ronald and Seamus’ shrieks filled the hallway as Ronald’s front teeth began to grow nonstop—not his molars, Harry hadn’t been _that_ cruel, they’d have punctured his skull and killed him—and Seamus’ fingernails and toenails began to grow _into_ his hands.

Jules whipped around, hand already going for his wand.

“I wouldn’t,” Harry said, pitching his voice to be icy cold and carry just across the distance between them, no farther. The other Gryffindors were clustering around Ronald and Seamus, paying the confrontation no heed. “You’re outnumbered, and they had it coming.”

“Slimy git,” Jules snapped.

“You really must come up with a new insult at some point,” Blaise said. “That one is rather losing its force…”

They started walking again. Harry ignored the worried looks he was getting from all of them, he knew his eyes were distant and didn’t care. He wished he had Eriss with him, but she was still off with Mariko and Neddi.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Harry jumped about four inches and had his wand halfway drawn before he realized it was Neville.

“Harry,” Neville said, lowering his hand as if it’d been burned. “Er…”

“I’m fine.” Harry said it flatly, in the tone Snape used when he didn’t want to hear arguments. He was still trying to shake off the feeling of being pinned in place. He really hated the body-bind.

Maybe he could runeward his robes to block it. Or other spells. Or to hold a whole Shield Charm once he could actually cast one.

By the time dinner ended, he was more or less calmed down, and managed to rejoin the conversation as he walked with his friends to the Knights Room for their Friday night dueling practice. He’d have to run to make Quidditch afterwards, but it was worth it.

“Potter!”

Harry turned around and saw Noah Bole. “You guys go ahead,” he muttered.

Theo eyed the approaching Bole. “You sure?”

“Go.”

Theo shrugged and went with the others. Harry suspected he’d be eavesdropping from around the next corner.

“Yeah?” he said when Noah caught up to him.

“Look, I know your lot goes off to practice dueling,” Bole said bluntly.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“I want to come.”

“Why?” Harry said, wondering how and why Bole had pegged him as the one in charge. He wasn’t.

No, actually. If he thought about that—Blaise or Theo, Daphne or Pansy, they’d all have come to him to ask him if someone else could tag along. Harry had a sudden sense that he could drag Noah Bole straight into the Knights Room and say “he’s going to join” and the rest would go along with it. There’d be questions later, sure—but they’d go with it.

It was a strange feeling, half unpleasant, half… not.

Noah shrugged. “You might’ve noticed I need the help. Charms and Defense are my weakest subjects, and dueling relies mostly on those two. Also, my brother likes you.”

Interesting. Alton Bole had never given Harry much indication of that during Quidditch practice, but then again, he was nearly as fanatic about it as Flint. Everything took a backseat to _intense focus_ during practice, including whether or not he actually liked someone. Bole treated Flint with respect due the Captain and everyone else exactly the same, from Bletchley to Harry to Malfoy.

“Can you work with Gryffindors?” he said finally.

“As long as they’re _your_ sort of Gryffindor,” Bole said with a sharp smile.

Harry shrugged. “All right, then. Expect one of the Weasley twins to dump you arse over teakettle.”

Bole looked a bit apprehensive, but Harry ignored him and kept walking. He also ignored Bole’s impressed whistle as Harry said first “Rapier” and then “Taiga falcon” to get past the knights and the door ward, and they squeezed into the Knights Room.

“Noah Boley,” George said, grinning when he saw Noah.

“What a surprise,” Fred added.

Blaise and Theo raised their eyebrows.

Harry shrugged. It wouldn’t hurt to have a closer ally in the fourth years. Bole was about middling on the House-wide social ladder but he was an in with his brother and with the other purebloods, even though his family wasn’t Ancient or Noble.

“Right,” he said. “We had some fun with Weasley and Finnegan today, who wants to practice that hex Theo used?”

“Me,” Daphne said.

“What hex?” Fred said, frowning.

Theo filled him in on the story from outside Potions.

George sighed. “We’ll talk to him.”

“Speaking of which—”

“Harry, if we’re going to keep tacking people onto this little dueling session—”

“—how about we make it an unofficial dueling club, and bring more people?”

Harry blinked at the twins, then looked around at the rest of the group. Most of them looked pensive. But even Theo seemed to be waiting on Harry’s word. Well, hell. Bole was right. They did look to him.

In a split second, Harry had to decide—make the decision on his own, and set himself apart a bit, or ask for input and look weak?

Unless he could do the latter and still be independent…

“Thoughts?” he said evenly, looking around the other third years.

“It’d be good to practice with older students if we can get them,” Justin said, flipping his wand. He didn’t seem to care much, but Harry knew it was a farce. Justin could be just as canny and deceptive as a Slytherin when he put his mind to it.

Hermione was nodding. “And we can work with any of the younger set who are struggling…”

“Anyone who’s being bullied,” Neville said quietly. “And might need the help to deal with it.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at the twins and Bole. Fred and George nodded; Noah looked a bit surprised to have his opinion asked, and hesitated before speaking. “It’d be hard to keep a bigger group secret.”

“We’d take it slow,” Pansy said, clearly warming to the idea. Probably she saw it as a chance to network and gain and spread gossip. Harry was sure she’d make the most of the opportunity. “Add just a few at a time—people we know.”

“The Gryffindors are picking on Vasily Sitch from the Slytherin first years,” Daphne said. “Astoria mentioned it.”

“Have Astoria bring him along next week, then,” Harry said.

Fred and George shared a look. “We were thinking Ginny,” Fred said.

“She doesn’t need the dueling help so much as—”

“—a support network. Ron, Charlie, and Percy are all cold shouldering her.”

“I think they were offended when she came home last summer with better manners than they’ve got.”

Harry resisted the urge to rub the bridge of his nose. Roping Ginny in meant Natalie and Evalyn, too, and that would eventually drag in probably Luna, Terry Boot, Demelza Robins, the other second-year Slytherins…

“I can bring Jordan Harper and Anita Strickland along,” Noah said. “They’re both good with a wand. Maybe Alton, later. Oh, and Iris Viridian, Ravenclaw from my year—her great-grandfather was a nasty piece of work and she gets heat for it.”

“Zoey might be interested,” Justin said. “Hughes. Hannah won’t; she’s not much for dueling, but some of the older Hufflepuffs don’t like Zoey.” He didn’t explain why, and no one asked.

“I can think of two boys in Gryffindor,” Neville said.

Hermione looked at him, expression grim. “Jordan and Charlie?”

Neville nodded.

“What’s with Charlie?” Fred said. “We heard about the thing with Corner going after Jordan…”

“Apparently Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas used a first year as a test subject for a hex last week,” Hermione said angrily. “I told both of them off for it, and then I scrambled their Astronomy star charts when they weren’t looking—”

“I’m impressed, Hermione,” Theo said with a smirk. “Getting a little bit of payback?”

“I scrambled the letters to read _BULLY_ and not be erased, written over, or spelled off,” Hermione said. “If they tear the paper, it’ll just reappear somewhere else. And Sinestra doesn’t give duplicate charts anymore, not after that group that cheated on the exams two years ago.”

“Brilliant,” Blaise said.

Noah was staring at Hermione in shock. “That’s really advanced magic.”

Hermione looked pleased, but tried to hide it. “Yes—well, I suppose—I like Charms.”

Noah shook his head. “This was a good decision,” Harry barely heard him mutter.

“Bring anyone along who’s interested next week,” Harry said. “I’ll set the password to “don’t mess with me” on Fridays after classes. I have to get to practice, so can we get started?”

The answer was a resounding yes.


	5. School Drama

Professor Vector was already in the classroom when Harry arrived for his second period of Arithmancy. After the first week, and the preliminary exam that had nearly fried his brain, he’d added focused study of Arithmancy and Runes to his independent study time alongside Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms. He was already fairly sure he’d get at least two or three more problems correct if he retook the preliminary test, and once he had that material mastered, he could start working farther into the textbook.

With a wave of her wand, Professor Vector sent the stack of preliminary exams sailing from her desk out to every student in the classroom, facedown. “Take five minutes to review your scores and where you made errors,” she said.

Harry stared at the back of the test for a few seconds before he flipped it over. And winced. A large _57%_ was written in green ink along the top of the page. He hadn’t gotten a score lower than an 85%, or an E, for any assignment outside of Astronomy and History of Magic, which he cared far less about than his other classes. A 57 was…

“Harry,” Theo said, staring at his paper. “How did you _do_ that?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, flipping through the pages. Green ink bled across them, marking his every error and missed step. “Looks like being Muggle-raised isn’t as much of an advantage as she thought…”

“What are you talking about?” Daphne hissed. “Harry, I got a thirty-two.”

Harry stared at her. Daphne’s grades were consistently among the top ten of their year; if he remembered right, she’d ranked seventh the previous year on their exams.

“Thirty-five,” Theo confirmed.

“Hermione? What’d you get?” Harry said.

Hermione blinked and looked up at him, obviously upset. “Hm? Oh, sorry—a seventy-nine, I don’t remember the last time I did this poorly on a maths exam, my parents are going to be furious—”

“Have you been listening to a thing we’ve just said?” Theo said, rolling his eyes. “Hermione, that test was _designed_ to be difficult. Daphne and I scored in the low thirties.”

“But…” Hermione looked at her paper, then back up at them. “Harry?”

“I guess,” he said, showing her his 57%.

Justin was grinning by the time they turned to him. “Sixty-eight. I’ll have to write home and thank my parents for insisting I focus on maths.”

Hermione visibly struggled to reframe her score with this in mind.

Harry flipped back through the test. He could see several of his mistakes without the green ink thanks to the work he’d been doing on his own, but the notes and formulae and suggestions Vector had scribbled in his margins would be extremely helpful.

“Time!”

The conversation in the room stopped.

Professor Vector looked around with a grin. “There are twenty-six of you in here, and your class average was one point three percent higher than the previous best average on this preliminary exam. Well done.”

Several people looked startled.

“I would particularly like to commend Hermione Granger, Libby Borage, Mason Goshawk, Sue Li, Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Hadrian Potter, all of whom scored above fifty-five percent on this exam, which places you in the top ten percent of all the students who have ever taken it.”

Harry knew his composure slipped and revealed his surprise to the class for at least a few seconds. That was—well.

Maybe he needn’t have worried _quite_ so much about how hard this class was going to be.

“I hope you’ve all done your assigned readings.” Vector waved her wand again. Papers appeared on all their desks; she used parchment cut into rectangles and folded into neat packages instead of rolled in long sheets. Perhaps if Harry got on better terms with her at some point, he could point her in the direction of gridded composition notebooks. “If not, this assignment is going to be much more difficult for you than for your peers. Work on these problems as you like; you may reference your textbooks and your peers. I will answer any and all questions relevant to the subject matter, and if no one else needs me for a relevant question, I’ll take a shot at irrelevant questions as well. The last fifteen minutes will be spent going over any consistent errors or misunderstandings I pick up on while watching you all work. Go.”

Harry immediately turned his desk. His friends followed suit until they’d formed a circle. “Let’s do this,” Hermione said determinedly.

 

Though the threat and question of Sirius Black never really left Harry’s mind, he managed to put it on the back burner and focus on school. Even the dementors faded to the back of his mind, lurking around the edges of the grounds. He was, after all, here to learn: he’d inherit his family’s seat on the Wizengamot someday, and a Lordship, both of which required he have the best possible grades and opportunities so he could gain the respect of his peers and add to the Potter family fortune. It was the goal of every Lord or Lady to build on what had come before them, and Harry wasn’t about to be the Potter who left the vaults emptier than he’d gotten them. Not to mention the personal satisfaction of besting Jules.

Lupin remained odd and stilted around the Slytherins in general and Harry in particular. He wasn’t _overt_ in his favoritism, but Hermione and Justin both said everyone who successfully defeated the boggart in their classes had gotten House points. None of the Slytherins got any. One incident might’ve been excused as payback for the Slytherins refusing to do it as a group, but the trend continued as September crept into October, until most of the Slytherins reached a point of appreciating the interesting subject matter but disliking the professor. Harry kept his head down and studied Red Caps and kappas and never said a word to his godfather that indicated they were anything other than professor and student.

Most of his other classes went better. He continued to excel in Arithmancy, regularly topping the class with Justin, Hermione, Borage from Hufflepuff, Goshawk from Ravenclaw, and several older students who worked hard and caught up despite their lack of previous maths exposure. Hestia Carrow and Aaron Jigger both proved quite capable. Harry snickered quietly at the struggles Ernie Macmillan and Susan Bones faced. He wasn’t fond of either of them after the rumors they spread about him second year. He worked ahead of the curriculum in Potions, as usual, and the class itself was rather boring, aside from watching Snape sneer at Jules and Ronald’s abysmal brews. He was getting slowly but steadily better at Charms and his grasp of Transfiguration theory was starting to match better with his practical ability.

Quidditch took up an increasing amount of time as the Gryffindor versus Slytherin match approached. Harry had to divide his time carefully between practice, studying and hanging out with his friends, his own independent work pushing ahead of the Potions, Transfiguration, Runes, and Arithmancy curriculums, and the dueling club.

It had somehow grown, in the span of a few weeks, from ten people to just over thirty. Several younger Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs came along with Justin, Neville, and Hermione to help them deal with bullying better; Ginny and Nat, as Harry had predicted, roped their entire friend group into coming. Including Luna, who seemed vague and silly but was actually quite a powerful witch when she stopped rambling about strange magical creatures no one else had ever heard about long enough to participate. Noah Bole came regularly, sometimes with either Jordan Harper or Anita Strickland, in tow. He brought Iris Viridian and Mason Goshawk, Ravenclaw fourth years, along one day, and the two became regular features as well. Fred and George were almost always there causing chaos and occasionally detonating random things in the Knights Room. They got into a lot of heated arguments with Aaron Jigger, a Ravenclaw from their year who came from a family of Potions Masters and took umbrage at the uses to which the twins put “the sacred art of potions-making”. Harry let them at it. Occasionally, even Alton Bole and Miles Bletchley showed up, trounced everyone in turn, and left them to look up the spells the Slytherin sixth years had used.

Some of the best hours of his life were spent in the Knights Room practicing with the others, and Harry soon found challenges from the Slytherin upper years stopping altogether as they heard from Noah, Anita, Bletchley, and the older Bole that Harry, Theo, and Daphne were some of the best duelists their year and could even match with the fourth years most days. Even so, they met for only two hours on Fridays and kept the club unofficial. During the week, the Knights Room went back to being just a study spot and quiet place to hang out for Harry’s closer friends.

Eriss said she was having the time of her life exploring Hogwarts and making friends with the other snakes, although with a few exceptions, they weren’t intelligent enough to hold interesting conversations. Harry got good at casting powerful Notice-Me-Not charms on her so she could discretely wind herself around his left arm and shoulder beneath his robes during the day and come with him to classes. He rapidly learned to miss her when she _didn’t_ come along, because her sarcastic commentary was frequently the only entertaining part of History, Herbology, or Potions.

 

The announcement of the first Hogsmeade visit was the first thing to throw shade on his third year.

Well, second, if you counted Sirius Black and the resulting dementors, but Harry didn’t. All that had technically happened before term started and the dementors weren’t a problem as long as you stayed a healthy distance from the edges of the grounds, which he made very sure to do.

“I can’t wait to visit Tomes and Scrolls,” Hermione said, reading the notice eagerly. “I hear they’ve got an exclusive with a few publishers and get new titles out early—”

“I’m loading up on Zonko’s,” Theo said. Based on the wicked grin on his face, he was planning to turn the results of his shopping trip on Jules, Ronald, Finnegan, and Thomas, who’d been loudly and obnoxiously anti-Slytherin of late. Even more so than usual. “They say there’s a new line of hallucination-inducing peppermints…”

“Harry? You all right?” Neville said.

_I am beginning to detest that question._

Blaise quirked an eyebrow. “Judging by the look on his face, Neville, I’m going to go with _no_.”

“I haven’t got my permission slip,” Harry said. “Dursleys wouldn’t sign it because they were too busy letting Marge merrily insult her way through the Potter family tree and the nightmare that was my childhood.”

“James?” Daphne said.

“I wrote him. He said he’s not officially my legal guardian.” Harry rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “I’m quite certain between him and his best buddy Dumbledore they could make it work, but no, James doesn’t like me enough to help out.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Go to Professor Snape, maybe? He’s your Head of House…”

“He hates the Potters,” Neville said. “You’ve heard Jules ranting in the common room, Hermione, you know about the bad blood there.”

“He only leaves me alone in Potions because I’m one of the best in the class,” Harry said. “He’d never do it. And the Headmaster’s not any fonder of me.”

“Lupin…” But Hermione shook her head before she got any farther. “No, I know what you’ll say, and you’re right—he’s nearly as biased as James, if subtler about it.”

Harry sighed. “You and Theo will just have to let me know if you spot any books I might be interested in, all right?”

“Deal,” Theo said. “I’ll bring you something from Zonko’s, we can plot a bit of a mishap for Weasley and Finnegan, things have been a bit boring lately.”

“I’ll help,” Hermione said darkly.

The Slytherins all stared at her. The closet she got to involving herself with the ongoing spat between them and Jules’ friends was keeping any Slytherin plans or frustrations she overheard a secret. Neville sometimes joined in the planning or let slip a location, like when Blaise and Daphne had used his reports of a joint detention to ambush Weasley and Finnegan and turn their robes green two weeks ago, but he never participated, because everyone knew if he did the other Gryffindor boys would make his life miserable. There was only so much Harry and the other Slytherins could do to help from the dungeons and even Hermione lived in the girls’ dorm instead of the boys’.

She shrugged at their attention, still looking fierce. “He’s been going on for ages about Crookshanks—my cat—hating his stupid rat. Never mind Crookshanks is a bloody _cat_ , it’s in his _nature_ to go after rodents, but no, he’s an evil monster out to get the rat and it’s all my fault for not watching him closely enough, probably the nasty Slytherins I hang out with too much are corrupting me—gah. Yes. I’ll help.”

“There you go,” Pansy said, slinging her arm around Hermione’s shoulders with a predatory smile. Hermione’s eyes got steely like they did when she was setting her stubborn Gryffindor mind on something, and she grinned back.

That did cheer Harry up a bit, and he went into the Great Hall for breakfast feeling marginally better.

 

It was Halloween anyway, Harry told himself. He didn’t want to be in Hogsmeade, celebrating.

But just because he didn’t like the feasts didn’t mean he couldn’t go have some fun on a day that happened to be the anniversary of the death of a woman he’d never known, and it was still infuriating. The Dursleys were gone from his life for good—he’d been making quiet plans for two months as to how he could evade everyone for the whole summer if he had to—and they _still_ got to hold this power over him.

_“Master!”_

Harry grinned, checked that there was nobody around and no nearby portraits, and bent to pick his familiar up off the cold stone. She huddled contentedly into his robes. The colder weather was making her even more lethargic than usual, and she’d probably go into quasi-hibernation for a while soon, but until then Eriss seemed hell-bent on memorizing the entire castle.

 _“Lloyd says there is a way out of the castle, if you wish to sneak out to the human village,”_ Eriss said.

Harry stopped dead in his tracks, heart pounding. _“Where?”_

_“On the third floor. There is an incantation to make it open, Mariko doesn’t know it.”_

_“Fascinating,”_ Harry mused. _“I will certainly investigate… perhaps with some experimentation I can work out the incantation by the next Hogsmeade trip. Very clever.”_

Eriss flicked her tail. _“I know.”_

Smiling, Harry made his way towards the dungeons. He might as well go do some joint brewing and Occlumency practice if he was going to be stuck here. His only consolation was that Jules had also been confined to the castle for safety purposes and was absolutely furious about it, according to Neville and Hermione, who’d been very badly hiding their smiles when they relayed that information.

The smile dropped off his face when a voice called, “Harry!”

 _“Into the pack,”_ Harry hissed softly. Eriss slid out from under his robes and into the top of his pack as he turned around, fixing a pleasant expression on his face.

“Harry,” Lupin said with a pained smile. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you, Professor.” Harry put the slightest emphasis on _professor_ , hoping to remind his so-called godfather that they were not on a first-name basis.

 “Glad to hear it, glad to hear it… Would you care to join me for a cup of tea?”

Harry couldn’t explain exactly how much he did _not_ want to join Lupin for anything. “Thank you, sir, but I have homework to do.” Lie. He’d finished it yesterday and that morning.

Lupin laughed. It sounded forced. “So different from your father! It’s a Saturday, Harry, surely… and I… well, I think we might need to clear some things up.”

Clearly, he wasn’t going to let this go. “All right.”

Lupin led the way to his office, making awkward small talk. Harry answered politely with the bare minimum of words required and made no effort to continue the conversation. He took a bit of petty satisfaction out of every long, strained silence that he chose not to break.

Fortunately, they’d been on the fourth floor, and the defense suite was on the third. Harry didn’t have to put up with this for long before they made it to Lupin’s office and the professor got distracted by making tea. Harry accepted his teacup and sat down across from Lupin’s desk.

He sipped tea in silence, keeping his face impassive and waiting for Lupin to make the first move. Silence was a really good way to get people talking. Lupin shifted in his seat and looked increasingly uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by. Harry hid his smirk.

“How are your classes going?” Lupin said finally.

 _Really? That’s what you’re opening with?_ “Well, thank you, sir.”

“Excellent… you’re certainly one of the top students in my class, and I hear good things about you from the other teachers. It’s wonderful to see you following in your mother’s footsteps.”

He obviously wanted Harry to ask for more details about either his mother, his father, or their time in school. Harry wasn’t curious about James… but some of the others, yes. He could take advantage of this. Even if he was already falling back on Occlumency to keep his hatred in check.

“Could you tell me more about her, sir?” Harry said. Maybe this meeting wouldn’t be a _complete_ waste of time.

“Of course,” Lupin said, looking very relieved. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “She was brilliant, your mum… Top of our class, every year. Kind to everyone except bullies.”

“The way my father tells it, you were near the top of your class, yourself.” Harry watched Lupin carefully as the man’s face cycled through awkwardness, uncertainty, pride, and oddly enough, guilt.

“I was,” Lupin said. “Second in our year in nearly every class—though Severus bested everyone by a wide margin in Potions, including Lily, every year, and Sirius bested me in Transfiguration and Defense years five, six, and seven.”

Interesting. “My father made it sound like… like Sirius wasn’t a very good student,” Harry said, picking his words carefully, because it was a toss-up between his mum and Sirius Black for who he was more curious about and he didn’t want Lupin to go on the defensive and stop talking.

Lupin smiled, strained but fond. “Up until fifth year, no. He was a very talented wizard and intelligent but never applied himself until OWL year. Then... he seemed to realize there was a world outside school, one he should be preparing for…” Something in his face darkened now. “I wonder if that’s when they got to him… if we could’ve seen it coming.”

“You mean… the Dark Lord’s followers?” Harry said. “Did you know which of the people at school supported him?”

Lupin looked at him strangely. Harry thought back over what he’d just said and saw nothing wrong with it.

“…yes,” Lupin said slowly. “There were a number of budding Death Eaters in Hogwarts… Sirius’ brother Regulus was a Slytherin four years below us, and Sirius was always protective of him even though they had their differences… Regulus was openly a Death Eater after graduation. They might’ve gotten to Sirius through him...”

Harry made sure to look uncertain. He suspected Lupin was here partly looking for some kind of absolution—that he was guilty over having never noticed his close friend’s betrayal, guilty over Harry’s treatment, hoping desperately for forgiveness. “Well—he can’t have changed that much, can he? If you didn’t notice… was it only working harder in school? Were there any other signs?”

“In hindsight…” Lupin toyed with his teacup. “Perhaps. Sirius… well, his family was… unpleasant. Very old, and very nasty. He grew up hating his mother for her madness and his father for his callousness, but he also grew up entitled. There was very little denied the Black heir. And the moral code you learn as a Black isn’t so much a moral code as _don’t get caught, and kill them before they have a chance to hurt you.”_ Privately, Harry thought there was nothing inherently wrong with that being the basis of one’s moral code. It wasn’t too different from his own. “Sirius never did well with rules, or limits. So I suppose… we maybe should have predicted that would take him dark places… but we never imagined…”

There was pain written large on his features. Harry enjoyed it. “But… well, if he hated his family so much—why would he switch to their side of the war?”

“He hated everything to do with them,” Lupin said, glaring at the tabletop. “At least, during our school years. After… when we were fighting…” He shook his head. “You’d do better to ask your father, if you’re curious about what drove Black to betray us. I was—I had other tasks. I didn’t fight on the same battlefields as they did.”

Interesting. Maybe as a spy or something? “Okay. Thank you, Professor. I just—it’s hard to not wonder, you know? How it all happened… especially since I didn’t grow up with any of this.” A cautious feeler, testing, giving Lupin the opportunity to bring up what Harry thought he was actually hoping to talk about.

Sure enough, Lupin’s features tensed slightly. “Ah… I suppose, that—makes sense. Which reminds me—Harry, your boggart…”

Hearing his first name in his _godfather’s_ voice grated across Harry’s nerves like a live wire, but he held onto his irritation. For now. “No disrespect intended, sir, but my boggart is my private concern. You swore to keep it confidential.”

“And of course I will,” Lupin said, looking startled. Okay, so he hadn’t even thought about using the boggart knowledge against any of the students. Incredible, but that was Gryffindor for you. “I simply wondered—well, why…”

“Why my greatest fear was a bruised, wandless version of myself, wearing nasty old Muggle clothes and broken glasses?” Harry said innocently, readying the knife.

Lupin winced. “Yes. Was that… was it real?”

“Completely.” He sank the blade in, and hid his smile as Lupin’s face aged ten years in a second.

“They… the Dursleys…”

Well, if he wasn’t going to drop the subject, then Harry was going to twist the knife. Not entirely his fault. “I was locked in a boot cupboard every night and sometimes for days on end, forced to cook and clean and do chores in order to earn half as much food as I really needed while my cousin was given everything he asked for and then more, called ‘freak’ often enough that for a few years I thought it was my name, kept from having friends, and incessantly bullied and physically abused by my cousin and his juvenile gang while my aunt and uncle cheered him on.” Lupin seemed to take very word like a punch. “So yes, my greatest fear is being without magic and at their mercy again.”

“Harry,” Lupin whispered. “I am… more sorry than I can say that you had to endure that.”

Harry knew his face was stony, and didn’t even try to soften it.

“You have to understand… I was in no position to accept guardianship of a child after the war… and Lily and Peter were dead, Sirius had betrayed us all and been thrown in Azkaban, and I couldn’t… the grief was too much. I left.”

Left, and didn’t come back.

When Harry still didn’t speak, Lupin kept going, fumbling for words. “It was… I never imagined that… you’d be in such a position. I thought…”

“Did you know James was considering sending me to the Dursleys?” Harry said quietly.

Lupin looked away. That was answer enough.

“I see,” Harry said, moving to stand.

“Harry, please—” Lupin held out a hand. “Wait.”

Harry slowly sat back down.

“I knew he was considering sending you away until your accidental magic showed itself,” Lupin said. “To Lily’s Muggle relatives, to hide. I’d never met them. It never occurred to me that you might not be safe.”

 _There is no way my mum didn’t complain about them._ Harry knew James had been well aware of Lily and Petunia’s strained relationship. Petunia hadn’t even been at the wedding, judging by the pictures in Potter Manor. Lupin should’ve been able to guess.

“I understand why you did it,” Harry said.

Lupin relaxed.

Harry wasn’t quite sure how much of his hatred he should reveal. It would feel wonderful to throw all this back in Lupin’s face, sneer that he’d never forgive the man for what he’d done—but it would also show Harry’s hand. If Lupin wanted some kind of happiness from this, that wasn’t Harry’s problem. Understanding was not forgiveness and he knew now that Remus Lupin rolled over whenever James Potter said to. He was James’ and Dumbledore’s, and he could never be Harry’s ally. He’d already proven that multiple times over. Not to mention he somehow managed to put the blame on _himself_ and not on James in the first place, because he was so blind to his _friend’s_ faults.

But Harry wouldn’t tell him that, either.

 “Thank you, Harry. I’ll let you go study now.” Harry stood up to go. “Whenever you need me, my door is open.”

Harry paused on the threshold and looked back. He could still get _one_ parting shot in. For his own pleasure. “Professor… we’ve been over this. I must ask again that you not call me Harry. I don’t know you and you are my teacher.”

Lupin looked like he’d been slapped in the face.

“Thank you for the tea,” Harry said, and left the room before his flimsy Occlumency shields failed and he lost control of his magic and coated the room in ice. 

 

True to the resolution he’d made the previous year, Harry stayed firmly put in the Slytherin dorms during the feast. Theo and Blaise promised they’d sneak some jalebi and treacle tart, his favorite desserts, back down to the dungeons for him, and left with the rest of their year-mates. Even Malfoy paused and said he thought it was appalling that a set of Muggles were allowed to stop Harry going to Hogsmeade, which Harry accepted with a grimacing sort of smile. Luckily, Malfoy didn’t seem to notice the strain, and hurried off to catch up with the beefcakes.

Harry stared after him thoughtfully. Maybe Malfoy was starting to get it through his head that Slytherin valued subtlety, tact, cunning, and charm as well as straight ambition. If the young pureblood could get over his ego for five minutes and stop trying to bully people into following his family name and Gringotts balance, he might actually be a valuable part of Slytherin. If nothing else, it would make it easier to work with him on the Quidditch pitch, although his position as Seeker by definition set him apart to do his own drills, for which Harry thanked Merlin nearly every practice.

He settled down into an armchair by the window that looked out into the invisible depths of the Black Lake and stroked Eriss, curled in his lap, while he read. The book was _Esoteric Incantations._ Blaise had shrugged and summoned a house-elf to get the book and loan it to Harry. Harry had promptly decided he wanted a copy for himself and resolved to find one whenever he could get into Knockturn Alley where rare, dangerous, or outright illegal books could be purchased, according to his housemates. He’d thought the book had to do with charms, but it was really more to do with theory, and it was fascinating.

When the Slytherins started to trickle back into the dorms, Harry roused himself and cast a Notice-Me-Not charm on Eriss so she could stay coiled in his lap. He nodded to Romilda Vane, Astoria Greengrass, and Vasily Sitch, all of whom he knew from dueling club, and then the second years entered as a chattering flock. Harry watched them with interest. His year, and the first years, seemed to have split somewhat. Since Tracy left and Daphne had gotten closer to Pansy, Theo, Harry, and Blaise, the third year division had gone from a three-way balance to an uneasy truce. The other first years had mercilessly bullied Sitch until Greengrass and Vane had befriended him and the three of them had used their dueling club skills to prove they could and would bite back. They seemed to have earned themselves some peace, at least, and the Greengrass name kept the two baby bigots of that form off the three’s backs.

Somehow, though, Ginny’s form had managed to avoid all the infighting. Harry watched Finn Sullivan prod Ginny’s ribs until she hit him with a stinging hex. Sullivan danced back with theatrically exaggerated pain, while Aria Crosse and Natalie Nielsen laughed. Ginny sat down with Alex Rowle and Evalyn Travers while the other three goofed off and they started playing a game of Exploding Snap. Within a few minutes, the rest of their form had joined in.

Theo and Blaise came in not long after and headed straight for Harry. Theo tugged a parcel out of his robes and tossed it over. “Treacle tart, pumpkin pie, and half a plate of jalebi, since you’re one of about three people at our table who likes it enough to eat a significant amount.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. “I still find it strange that I’m watching _Ginny Weasley_ sitting down with three Death Eaters’ children or nieces plus two more from families who were sympathizers. How did that happen?”

“Probably the same way Fred and George Weasley ended up forming a terrifying friendship with Aaron Jigger and Noah Bole that might burn this castle down if they don’t kill each other first,” Blaise said sardonically. “Not all the Weasleys are idiots.”

Harry smirked. “Excellent point. On another note, thank you for this book, Blaise, it’s _fascinating._ I need to get my hands on a copy as soon as I can.”

“What’s so interesting?” Theo said, leaning forward eagerly. He loved a good academic discussion.

“Remember the boggart spell?” Harry said. “How Lupin said it’s based on laughter?”

“Which seemed a bit silly,” Theo said. “We talked about this, didn’t we? You and I both got some _satisfaction_ out of what we did to the boggart, but not actual—amusement. We didn’t laugh.”

“Harry rarely laughs anyway,” Blaise said languidly. He’d draped himself back over an armchair with posture that was better suited to an extremely entitled, confident young king than a thirteen-year-old wizard-in-training, and managed to make it look both elegant and unstudied.

“Not the point,” Harry said. “I was curious. He mentioned it requires a certain frame of mind to cast. But according to this—” he tapped _Esoteric Incantations_ — “using a _frame of mind_ to cast spells is more or less a crutch. The first thing McGonagall and Flitwick taught us first year was intent. You have to know what result wand movements and the incantation you use will produce and at least have an idea _why_ if you want to maximize the spell’s effect. ‘Framing’ a spell with emotion, like laughter, works as a crutch—but technically you can learn to cast _riddikulus_ and banish a Boggart without using laughter or a funny image to do it.”

“Brilliant,” Theo said, eyes gleaming. “It’s fear, isn’t it? Fear makes laughter nearly impossible to summon. But if you can just force the boggart out of the shape that frightens you and into something that has no power over you anymore, then it’s done for. They feed off of fear. Take that away—” He snapped his fingers.

Harry nodded. “Exactly.”

“Why’d Lupin teach it that way, then?” Blaise said.

“He’s an idiot?” Theo suggested innocently.

Harry gave him a look.

Theo heaved a sigh. “Fine, he’s not an idiot, but he also seems like a bit of a coward. He practically grovels whenever Dumbledore walks by, you can see it all over his face. And he hasn’t got any idea how to teach students who aren’t Gryffindors. I got Hermione to tell me what their class’ boggarts were—things like clowns, giant spiders, mummies…”

“That’s probably why Lockhart didn’t think to split us up,” Harry said with a flash of insight. His face hardened as he continued. “Their fears are all… well, immature. Children’s fears. It’s… likely that Slytherins have more complex fears…”

“Because Slytherin traits tend to be cultivated in children from environments that forced them to mature faster than usual,” Blaise finished, nodding. “Makes sense. I take it framing is used mostly for children, then? Since it’s much more difficult to make an abstract fear like one of ours into something outright amusing.”

“That’s the thing.” Harry patted _Esoteric Incantations_ again. “This says yes—if you must start children on boggarts, use the framing approach, then once they have some experience, have them try forcing the boggart into different but also amusing shapes, and eventually to things that aren’t funny at all but don’t have the same ‘greatest fear’ connotations. Eventually they don’t need the framing and work their way out of it without ever knowing that’s what they’re doing. But the Defense book doesn’t talk about that at all, and I checked four others in the library two days ago when I first started seeing the picture come together—all the Ministry-approved books have the framing approach and never mention that it’s possible to banish boggarts with _riddikulus_ alone.”

“Bloody Ministry can’t get anything right,” Theo said.

Harry had to agree. He was fairly convinced at this point that too much interaction between wizards and Muggles was dangerous, but there were some things that modern Muggle democracies and republics managed to do better than wizarding Britain. Two of those things were censorship of published research and freedom of the press.

“What other spells use framing?” Theo said.

Blaise cocked his head. “Some curses rely on the caster wanting the effects of said curse to be leveled on the victim…”

“That comes back to intent, though,” Theo argued. “Or seems to. I mean—take the Imperius. You have to want to control the person. There can’t be a part of you hesitating. But that’s not framing with emotion, that’s using intent to power the curse.”

“Imperius,” Harry said. “That’s an Unforgiveable, right?”

“Sometimes I forget you’re Muggle-raised,” Blaise muttered.

Harry placed a hand over his heart. “Why, Blaise, that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Sod off, Potter,” Blaise drawled.

“Yes, it’s an Unforgiveable,” Theo said, watching Harry carefully. “Do you know the others?”

“One kills people and one is a torturing curse,” Harry said. “More than that, I can’t find out without breaking into the restricted section, and I haven’t managed to peel apart the wards on it yet. Dumbledore himself set them, so unless I can find a passage that opens right into the middle of the restricted stacks, it’s going to be a while. Or I could forge a pass, I suppose, Pince doesn’t magically check signatures…”

“Or I could just tell you,” Theo said acerbically. “If you’re curious.”

Harry blinked at him. “Why would I not be curious? They’re extremely powerful spells.”

“Dark,” Blaise pointed out.

“Do they have side effects on the caster?” Harry said. “Soul, mind, body, whatever?”

Theo shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Magic is magic,” Harry said, speaking slowly to make sure he believed the words. “If nothing else, I might have to guard against one someday.”

“True enough. One’s Avada Kedavra—the Killing Curse.” Theo frowned slightly. “Leaves no trace, can’t be blocked or deflected—only dodged. If it hits you, you’re done, instantly.”

“That’s what Jules survived,” Harry said. “Right?”

Theo nodded. “Then the other is the Cruciatus Curse— _crucio_. You can literally drive people insane by putting them under for too long. It causes intense pain across the body without actually damaging any physical structures.”

Harry was reminded of the potions accident he’d engineered the year before. “Sounds unpleasant.”

“Very. And then—Imperius. _Imperio_.” Theo’s frown deepened. “The most insidious, and some would argue the most harmful, of the three. It allows the caster complete and utter control of the victim.”

“Why is it most harmful?” Blaise said. “I’ve never heard anyone make that point before.”

“Depends,” Theo said. “What do you think would be worse—to have your body tortured, or have someone violate your mind and erase all that you are and force your consciousness to a tiny fragmented corner of your skull while someone else forced you to think, act, and say what they wanted?”

By the time he finished, Blaise looked about as sick as Harry felt. “Point taken,” Blaise said.

“Intent,” Harry mused. “Hmmm…”

Before he could follow his train of thought, a sudden commotion at the entrance drew the attention of everyone in the common room.

Seventh year prefect Ava Pucey burst out of a clot of anxious people. She held her wand to her throat. _“EVERYONE TO THE COMMON ROOM!”_ she shouted, her magically amplified voice echoing down the halls.

Within half a minute, everyone who’d made it back to their dormitories—there weren’t many—had come back out.

“We will all be sleeping in the Great Hall tonight,” Pucey announced, standing on a table so they could all see her. Between the expression on her face and the ice in her tone, no one dared even ask a question. “Fifth and seventh year prefects will be escorting you up. Sixth year prefects will be checking for anyone else down in the dungeons and bringing them up. Move.”

Confused, Harry stuffed Eriss and _Esoteric Incantations_ into his bag. _“Why do I have to come?”_ Eriss complained sleepily. _“It’s warm down here.”_

 _“I might need you,”_ Harry said.

She closed her eyes and settled down on top of his books and the cloak he put in with a wandless warmth charm for her comfort. _“Fine. But I expect Cockroach Cluster out of it.”_

Harry smirked as he closed the bag. She really was his familiar. He usually refused to give her too much of the candy, not wanting to spoil her, and of course she’d resort to extortion.

 It was a subdued and wary group of Slytherins that made their way up to the Great Hall. Everywhere Harry looked, wands were out. Without anyone having to say a word, the youngest students were shunted towards the middle of the group with older students at the front and back. Flora Carrow shepherded Ginny Weasley and Vasily Sitch; Everett Kinney did a head count of the third years and nodded when Harry caught his eye. Harry was suddenly and fiercely proud of his House. Whatever their internal issues, Slytherin protected its own.

Despite their caution, they reached the Great Hall without incident. Harry blinked when they walked inside. The tables had all disappeared, and in their places hundreds of squashy purple sleeping bags covered the floor.

“Three guesses who picked the color on those things,” he whispered. Theo and Blaise smirked. Kinney, still walking near them, snorted and shot Harry an approving glance. Harry kept his face blank, but inwardly he was curious about this sudden willingness to be civil. Since Flint and Bletchley pulled the Carrows, Montague, and Kinney off Harry in second year, the students who had tried to attack him that day had more or less pretended he didn’t exist.

Harry deliberately chose a sleeping bag in between Theo and Blaise, with Daphne and Pansy in the next row over so all five of them had their heads together. Only when they were settled down did he let Eriss out of the bag. _“I need to know what’s going on,”_ he told her, keeping the Parseltongue soft. Theo and Pansy started arguing about nothing, presumably to cover the noise. _“I’ll cast a Notice-Me-Not_ _on you—can you go find Dumbledore and shadow him? Remember where he goes and what he says. Send one of the other snakes back if you have to get a message to me, but only if it’s urgent—they won’t be charmed and someone might see.”_

 _“I take it back,”_ Eriss said, tongue flickering. _“This actually sounds really fun.”_

Harry suppressed a grin and cast a powerful Notice-Me-Not. Theo, Blaise, Daphne, and Pansy all layered their own charms on top of it, which would hopefully be enough to keep Eriss unseen. They watched her tail disappear into the shadows.

“She’s spying?” Theo said in an undertone.

Harry nodded. “Sent her after the headmaster. We’ll see what she picks up.” He dug out a notebook, disguised gel pen, and three books on runes and spellcrafting, and spread out the books and paper in the limited space between his sleeping bag and Theo’s. Lying face down wasn’t his favorite position, but sitting upright would draw too much attention, so he made it work.

“What’re you working on?” Theo hissed.

Flipping through rune tables and examples of rune spells, Harry absently replied, “An invisibility spell for Eriss.”

“Excellent plan,” Blaise said. “I believe they’re turning out the lights in half an hour.”

Harry glanced at the worried knot of prefects by the doors. “Why didn’t they do this during the troll disaster?”

“Because Dumbledore has no sense?” Daphne said in a tone that implied Harry shouldn’t have needed to ask. He sneered in her direction and went back to working.

He’d found a few leads, at least, and jotted down some relevant information and rune arrays he could possibly adapt for his purposes, by the time the call for lights-out rippled across the assembled students. He packed his things away with a sigh and huddled down in his sleeping bag, wishing he knew more. The Slytherins didn’t even have enough information to speculate about, and with the prefects stalking around, there was little chance of communicating with the Ravenclaws and through them the other Houses to see if any of them knew more.

Before he relaxed all the way, Harry cast the strongest sound-cancelling and Notice-Me-Not spells he could around himself. The last thing he needed was to wake up screaming in front of literally the entire school. Hopefully if he had nightmares, the spells would keep anyone from Blaise and Theo from noticing. They at least knew Harry struggled with his nightmares, if not how often it happened. He was also sure to spend ten minutes longer than usual on Occlumency to make _very extra sure_ his mind was calm and empty.

 

_“Master. Master, wake up.”_

Harry blinked, awake almost instantly. Sleeping light had been a necessity in the Dursley household. _“Eriss,”_ he said. _“Did anyone see you?”_

_“The smelly one might have if not for your magic.”_

Harry frowned. _“Who is the smelly one?”_

_“His is the class with the strange creatures.”_

_“Oh, Lupin. Tatty robes?”_

_“I suppose.”_

_“What does he smell like?”_ That was definitely odd.

Eriss paused. _“Strange… in the opposite way that the rat smelled strange. Something hides. He may not be human.”_

Harry stared at her for a few seconds before he found his voice. _“What else could he_ be?”

 _“I don’t know,”_ Eriss said. _“Mariko says snakes learn to smell different species apart by experience.”_

_“Is he… dangerous?”_

_“He could be… many species are, from what you’ve told me.”_

Harry filed the mystery of Remus Lupin away for further consideration. _“Anything interesting? Do you know what happened?”_

Eriss worked her way down into his sleeping bag, clearly seeking the warmth. _“The old beard man spoke to the greasy Potions man.”_

 _“Snape and Dumbledore_ ,” Harry corrected. For some reason, Eriss had trouble with human names.

_“The Potions Snape suspects someone helped a human named Black into the castle.”_

Harry gasped and bit down on his thumb, looking around. Fortunately, it looked like the sound wards held; no one stirred. _“Sirius Black was in Hogwarts?”_

 _“They’re very confused how he got in._ ” Eriss settled herself along Harry’s side, leeching his warmth. _“No one seems to have a clue… The stinky man who hates all the students swears Black couldn’t have gotten in using a passage. Black went to Gryffindor Tower and tried to break inside. He used a knife and attacked the painting that guards their den. The painting is shredded. Beard Dumbledore says he trusts the one Potions Snape said he thinks helped Black sneak in and out.”_

 _“Thanks,”_ Harry said, scratching under her chin the way she liked. Eriss leaned into his hand.

 _“It wasss… a fun… adventure.”_ Eriss cracked open an eye. _“But you are still giving me Cockroach Cluster tomorrow.”_

He grinned. _“As if I’d go back on my word.”_

For days, all the school could talk about was Sirius Black.

It physically pained Harry every time he heard someone theorize that Black had gotten in and out via Apparition or Floo. “Honestly,” he hissed, glaring at Ravenclaw fourth year Marietta Edgecombe. “How thick can you _get?”_

“Crabbe,” Blaise responded instantly.

Theo cackled and Harry smirked, but it didn’t diminish the fact that apparently a decent number of his fellow students either didn’t read, never paid attention, or were simply idiots.

Hermione and Neville tried not to show it, but Harry could tell they were both unnerved by the attack. He supposed they had a right; it was their dormitory, after all. They complained endlessly about the irritating new painting guarding their common room. They wouldn’t say his name but according to Neville he was an “extremely irritating knight who tries to challenge you to a duel half the time when you just want to go sleep,” which would’ve been more than enough information if Harry had really wanted to find the Gryffindor common room.

For his part, Harry didn’t worry about Black. Much. He’d been a Gryffindor, meaning finding the Slytherin common room would be much harder, and Jules was the Boy Who Lived. Harry was probably safe at least as long as Jules was alive, and they had an approaching Quidditch match to prepare for. Flint was driving the Slytherin team harder than ever, determined to prove themselves as the weather worsened, and between that, classwork, dueling club, and independent study, Harry had neither the energy nor the time to worry about a potential murderer in the school.

 

The day before the match was the worst weather yet. Harry decided he needed to maybe use a _diffindo_ on Wood’s book bag next time he saw the Gryffindor captain in the halls for poking Flint’s pride and making them fly in this weather. The gale pounded on the windows, rain lashed the courtyard, and it was so dark the house-elves had to set out extra torches and lanterns and balls of conjured light.

Harry determinedly pushed worries about the weather out of his head and pulled out his Defense textbook, flipping it to the chapter on hinkypunks. He’d already read it, so he opened _Runic Rituals_ to the chapter on concealment runes and started taking notes in the margins. So engrossed was he that he only looked up when the connecting door to Lupin’s office slammed.

With a start, he looked up, and found not Lupin but Snape standing at the front of the classroom.

Malfoy was smirking. Even Pansy and Daphne looked pleased. This was likely to be the best Defense class they’d had all year.

“It seems that Professor Lupin is woefully disorganized,” Snape said with barely disguised contempt. “He’s left next to no record on what you have covered so far this year. If someone could… enlighten me? Mr. Malfoy, perhaps?”

“Of course, sir,” Malfoy said. “We’ve covered boggarts, Red Caps, kappas, and grindylows.”

Snape’s lip curled. “Disgraceful. Any _competent_ teacher would’ve had you halfway through the textbook by now. It seems the task of catching you up falls to me… Mr. Potter, why do you have an Ancient Runes book open?”

Harry bit his tongue on _because I’m reading it_ , a response that would surely land him in detention, and made his face and tone as innocent as possible. “To study, sir.”

“To… study. And why, pray tell, are you not studying for _this_ class?”

Bulstrode looked delighted to see Harry catching it from Snape. Malfoy, surprisingly, wasn’t gloating too badly.

“I’ve already read the chapter on hinkypunks, sir, which is what we were due to begin next in Professor Lupin’s class.”

“Have you now,” Snape drawled. “Tell me, Mr. Potter, what is a hinkypunk’s natural habitat?”

“Swamps and bogs,” Harry said instantly. “Preferably those with a few small paths providing access for land travelers.”

“And what is the danger posed to said travelers by the hinkypunk?”

Harry reached for basic Occlumency to keep his irritation in check. “Hinkypunks use magically conjured fire in their lanterns to lure travelers away from the path until they drown in the bog. If one happens to be within range, hinkypunks can also shoot fire at people from their lanterns.”

“Tell me how you would react should you be confronted with a hinkypunk and unable to Apparate.”

“The book recommends the Lumos Duo Charm cast repeatedly, and then a Knockback Jinx,” Harry said.

Snape folded his arms. “I asked how _you_ would react, not what the book says.”

Play dumb and follow the book, or prove himself and give what he was fairly certain was a better response…

Normally Harry preferred to keep a low profile, but he had the distinct sense Snape was testing him, and decided in a split second to rise to the challenge. “The Blaze Charm, sir. _Fulma_. Unlike Lumos Duo, it would be powerful enough to disorient the hinkypunk with only one casting. The Knockback Jinx is a decent follow-up but _reducto_ would be more efficient.”

Snape’s expression was unreadable. “You will close your runes textbook, Mr. Potter, and focus on the materials delivered in this class today, because we will not be discussing hinkypunks at all.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry closed _Runic Rituals_ and pushed it aside. At least he hadn’t gotten points taken off.

The class waited in silence while Snape paced back up to the front of the room and whipped around, robes billowing dramatically. “We will commence with werewolves. Open your books to chapter eleven. Read and take notes.”

Werewolves. Interesting choice of topic. Harry worked at slower than his usual pace; his attention was divided between actually doing the work and trying to figure out why Snape had picked werewolves of all things. Vampires were chapter thirteen and the various covens and lineages of Asia and the Middle East had a much greater political and cultural impact than the scattered, fractious, and shunned werewolf packs that roamed Europe, northern Asia, Australia, and the Americas. It made no sense on the surface to pick werewolves over vampires as their next focus, but Snape was a true Slytherin, and he didn't do anything without a reason. 

Snape spent the entire class pacing about, sneering at the quality of work Lupin accepted and generally being a git, if Harry was being honest. Not that he’d be so Gryffindor as to say so to the man’s face. In fact, he knew from Neville that while the Slytherins had a free period, the Gryffindors would be finishing out their day with Snape for Defense next.

“Ten galleons says Weasley’s the first to get detention,” Harry said as they were walking out the door.

Theo shook his head. “I say the Other Potter. We all know how much Snape hates your family.”

They glanced at Blaise. He looked down his nose at them. “I am a Zabini and Zabinis do not engage in such crass behaviors as gambling.”

“Suit yourself,” Theo said.

Thirty seconds later, Blaise smirked. “Five galleons on Hermione. She absolutely cannot keep her mouth shut around Snape.”

“There you go,” Theo laughed.

 

That evening, in the Knights Room, Neville and Hermione treated them all to a ten-minute rant about the injustices of Snape teaching Defense. “Two rolls of parchment,” Neville moaned. “On _werewolves_ of all things.”

“Let me guess, he made fun of you for not knowing about werewolves?” Justin said.

“You should’ve seen Hermione biting her tongue,” Neville said, grinning.

Blaise nodded at Hermione. “Good job knowing when to stay quiet.”

“It’s just _frustrating,_ ” Hermione said. “I know he’d have only found an excuse to take points if I answered.” Her eyes got the determined edge to them. “I’m going to write _three_ rolls of parchment. All of it O-worthy.”

“That works,” Harry said. “I’m betting Jules wasn’t happy?”

“Definitely not,” Hermione said. “Nor Ron—any of us, really. Parvati just would not stop asking him questions about Lupin, Ron defended her and got detention, all three of them lost points. It was a disaster.”

Blaise made a face and Theo subtly slumped back in his chair. Harry smirked.

“Did you find out what happened to Lupin, at least?” Justin said. “No one in my class was brave enough to ask.”

“Snape just said he was ill,” Hermione said.

Daphne chose that moment to hurl her disguised pen at the wall. “Arithmancy is impossible,” she hissed.

“Need a hand?” Harry said, smirking at her.

Daphne glared at him. “No need to hold it over my head, Potter.”

“Why, Daphne,” he said, sitting down next to her and grabbing her parchment. “I’m offended you think I would even consider such deplorable behavior.”

“Hilarious,” Daphne deadpanned. “Explain example eight for me.”

“Gladly, Your Highness.”  Harry laughed at the glare she shot him and started working through the assigned Arithmancy reading with her.

 

Harry had never flown in worse weather.

Running down to the team’s rooms under the pitch was a nightmare of its own. Rain blew sideways and they were soaked within seconds of leaving the entrance hall. Harry fought his way across the grounds between Bletchley and Malfoy.

The second they got inside the team locker room, they all stripped, cast drying and warming charms on themselves. Flint made everyone spread out their gear in front of the fire in the locker room and come out to the lounge for a quick pep talk. 

Harry hung back. The wool sweaters would be miserably wet and heavy within a minute, two at the most, in this rain, not to mention wickedly cold.

Unless he intervened.

Once the others were out of sight, Harry laid a hand on his sweater and one on Malfoy’s, concentrating as hard as he could to force warmth into them. He had to set it so the magic he put into the fabric would spend itself slowly and steadily instead of fast and strong, for a long-lasting warmth instead of short-term heat. The mental strain was greater than the magical, and by the time he’d done all seven sweaters, seven pairs of Quidditch gloves, and everyone’s boots, he had a slight headache and had to blink himself out of his intense focus.

He turned around and froze.

The entire Quidditch team was watching him from the door to the lounge. Bole and Derrick’s mouths were actually open; all the rest looked anywhere from shocked to suspicious.

“Warming charms,” Harry said, deciding it was best to get the explanation out of the way. “I can’t figure out how make them last as long with a wand, or control the temperature as well. We’ll still get soaked but we won’t freeze out there.”

“Potter,” Flint said, finding his voice. “You just did wandless magic.”

“What, really? I never would’ve noticed.” Harry folded his arms.

Derrick shook his head. “And you kept this a secret?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Harry sneered.

Bletchley snickered suddenly. “Thank Merlin you’re on our team.”

“Is that all you can do wandlessly?” Bole said, his blue eyes meeting Harry’s green challengingly.

Harry lifted his chin. “Yes. It was… a survival thing.”

That, at least, made sense to them. Slytherins understood necessity, and doing whatever you had to. Flint shrugged and ordered them all into the lounge for a last-minute prep session while the rest of the students finished breakfast and made their way downstairs, but they’d been studying Gryffindor tactics and preparing for months for this match, and there wasn’t much left to say. Flint made sure they were all wearing goggles and cast _impervius_ charms to repel water from their faces and goggle lenses. Harry hated wearing goggles over his glasses—come to think of it, he should order goggles with lenses that doubled as glasses lenses—but in this weather he didn’t have much of a choice. He clamped his palms over his ears for a few seconds and pushed warmth into them, and then tugged his gloves on, mounted his broom, and lined up in the passage from the team rooms to the pitch in their usual formation.

No one spoke. No one needed to. They were united in their grim determination to win.

The seven of them stalked out onto the field. Harry squinted as they broke out of the protection of the passage and the wind and rain assaulted him again. It was a testament to the school’s fanatic love of Quidditch that the stands didn’t look any less full than usual. As he’d expected, his wool sweater was more or less saturated by the time they got to the center of the pitch to meet the Gryffindors, but at least he was warm. Jules glared at Harry across the space between the teams. Harry just smirked back at him and swung his Nimbus 2001 down into position with the rest of his team.

Somewhere, Lee Jordan was announcing, but Harry could barely hear him over the storm.

“Captains, shake hands!” Madam Hooch bellowed. Wood and Flint stepped up to the center of the pitch, looking, as usual, like they were trying to break each other’s grips in the traditional handshake.

“Mount your brooms!”

Everyone prepared to fly.

The whistle blew.

Harry shot into the sky. The wind grabbed him instantly. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it was steady, but the gale whipped around inconsistently, changing both direction and force every second, and he had to be constantly adjusting to stay on his flight course. Jordan’s commentary had been distorted from the ground; up here, with the wind in his ears, Harry couldn’t hear him at all.

The Slytherin Chasers launched into action instantly but lost possession to Katie Bell. Derrick pounded a Bludger in her direction and made her swerve, but she kept hold of the Quaffle and rocketed off toward the Slytherin goals. Harry caught a flicker of a hand signal from Flint before they were too far apart to see each other well and yanked his broom skyward, marking Alicia Spinnet so abruptly that she missed her position in the formation and the Slytherins took possession.

Harry looped around one of the spectator stands, knowing he’d as good as disappear in this rain and confuse her to bits, before leaning forward and shooting off in the direction of the Gryffindor goals. Pucey had possession. Flint was busy avoiding a Bludger. Harry eased into a support position to Pucey’s left, evaded Angelina Johnson, and batted the Quaffle back and forth with Pucey three times before Pucey managed to fire.

Wood blocked it. He tried to pass it off to Johnson but Harry intercepted, mainly by chance, and it caught Wood so off guard that Harry managed to eke out a goal, scoring Slytherin’s first ten points.

The game dissolved into a bit of a blur after that. Minutes dragged into hours and it was nearly impossible to score. Harry’s hands ached from gripping his broom handle and he wasn’t sure how much longer the warming charms would last; he hadn’t expected the game to go on nearly this long. The sky was darkening.

Pucey’s hand signal pulled him out of the sky just as the first bolt of lightning cracked across the bellies of the clouds. Harry landed hard in the mud with his teammates and huddled up with them.

“Gryffindors called time out,” Flint said immediately. “How’s everyone doing?”

“I can barely see,” Malfoy said. “Whoever gets the Snitch is going to be whoever accidentally gets smacked in the face by it at this point.”

Bletchley made a face.

“We’re thirty points up,” Flint said, “but Malfoy, we have _got_ to get the Snitch soon or we will literally be out here all night. Got it?”

Malfoy nodded, resolute.

“Hold up,” Harry said, and hurriedly went around the circle, resting his hands on his teammates’ arms and pumping more warming energy into everyone’s sweaters. “This won’t last all night but it should hold another two hours at the most,” he said, breathing a bit heavily by the time he was done. Wandless magic was more taxing than normal and he’d had class today _and_ he was exhausted physically as well as magically from the game.

“Useful trick,” Bole muttered as Harry stepped away.

Flint nodded. “Everyone, mount up. Let’s win this.”

Harry kicked off determinedly.

Everyone was flying with renewed vigor now but the game couldn’t even get dirty or potentially tricky: no one could see well enough to manage a foul or any kind of complicated Chaser plays. Harry soon forgot what it was to be dry or still. He never stopped, never hesitated. The world narrowed to the Quaffle, the storm, his broom, the Keepers, and his fellow Chasers.

Until the warming magic on his sweater ran out.

Harry faltered slightly and had to work extra hard to catch back up to Spinnet and body check her so she dropped the Quaffle. Flint swept by underneath and caught it. Harry went high and Pucey low to provide backup but a corner of Harry’s mind was distracted wondering what exactly had happened. They’d only been back in the air for an hour. The magical warmth should’ve lasted two at least.

He was afraid they were never going to win this game. That everything would fall apart and all of Slytherin would see him for what he was—pathetic, useless…

Cold water seeped into his ears and shocked him out of it. Harry frowned and poured on the speed, barely arcing into place to catch Flint’s pass. He managed to get ahold of the Quaffle long enough to shunt it back off to Pucey, who scored—something was wrong here, that mood was—was—

Harry’s heart stuttered.

He turned on his broom as another wave of sickening despair, five times stronger, hit him from above like a truck. His Occlumency shields were leaves in the wind to the dementors’ power. There must have been dozens of them, flying above him, eerie and lethal…

Some part of him was panicking, screaming, demanding that he fly to the ground _now_ , but he couldn’t bring himself to care… what was the point? He couldn’t remember why he ought to care. If he lived, or died. When he tried to think of people (why people?) he should live for, only the Dursleys came to mind… the Dursleys, calling him _freak_ and _boy_ and _you filthy waste of space_ … laughable, then, that he should bother to sink his broom to the ground… or do much of anything, really…

The rain faded away. Harry was dimly aware that he was tipping sideways off his broom and then—

_“You conniving little scum! I know you’ve been stealing food again, I know it! How dare you take what belongs to our Dudders!”_

_Dudley blubbering on the pavement. Harry, ten feet away, holding his glasses together, blood and pain at his nose, elbows, knees, palms. Bruises forming under his shirt. “He-he started it,” Dudley wailed. “He at-attacked me!”_

_“I never!” Harry said, as Uncle Vernon marched over and grabbed him by the arm. “I never, I swear—”_

_“We all know what good your word is, boy—you won’t see the outside of your cupboard for a week for this—bread and water only—Petunia—”_

_Petunia’s narrow, horsey face loomed over him, pinched, furious, something else he couldn’t name._

The world went black.

 

He held himself perfectly still as he came awake. No use letting anyone know just yet.

A soothing female voice was speaking somewhere to his right in low tones, words indistinguishable. He smelled the sharp-clean scent of potions and cleaning charms, felt the stiffness of freshly washed sheets against his legs and arms—

Oh, right. Quidditch. Dementors. Hospital wing.

Harry opened his eyes. Someone had left his glasses on this time, thank Merlin—apparently Pomfrey had learned from the time he woke up flailing and panicking after the Bludger incident the previous year. He cut his eyes left and right without moving his head. The Slytherin Quidditch team was sitting in a clot of visitors’ chairs not far away. Pansy was passed out on the bed next to him, leaning on Neville’s shoulder; Neville looked as if he was trying very hard not to disturb her. Blaise was there too, and Theo, Daphne, Hermione, Justin—Harry’s mind flooded with affection. The dementors had managed to make him forget all of them. His friends. They really were powerful.

“Hey,” he rasped.

All of them snapped to attention. “Harry!” Justin said, grinning—something about it was strained, Harry thought—

 _“Master!”_ Eriss hissed. Harry started and looked down—she was hidden neatly under the blankets along his right leg.

“Who brought Eriss?” he murmured so the Quidditch team wouldn’t hear. He was still keeping her a secret from the rest of his House.

Theo somehow managed to make his wave sarcastic. “Found her in your bed,” he said just as quietly. “We figured it might be a comfort. She can’t talk back, but she got the point. Blaise smuggled her in while we distracted Pomfrey.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, and then repeated himself in Parseltongue, discreetly scratching Eriss’ chin. “Just once I’d like to play a Quidditch match without my day ending in the hospital wing…”

“How are you feeling?” Neville said, gently jostling Pansy, who huffed a bit as she sat up.

“A bit like I went through a meat grinder,” Harry said. “What happened?”

Their faces darkened.

“Dementors,” Daphne spat.

“I’d figured that part out for myself, funnily enough,” Harry said, earning him an icy glare. He just smirked back at her.

Hermione shivered a bit. “I’ve never seen Dumbledore so angry. He shot something silvery out of his wand at the dementors and scared them off. Snape cast _arresto momentum_ and caught you before you hit the ground, but you were unconscious—they brought you up here.”

“Match?” Harry said.

“The Other Potter got the Snitch,” Pucey said darkly.

Harry glanced left. He hadn’t noticed the Quidditch team approaching, expressions grim. He winced and closed his eyes. “…this is my fault.”

“No,” Flint spat. “If anything, it’s Dumbledore’s, for letting those things near a school in the first place, and then apparently not warding the grounds strongly enough to keep them out.”

“There’s no shame in having some nasty shit in your past they dredge up, Potter,” Bletchley said bluntly. “Loads older and stronger wizards have fallen to three dementors, and you flew practically straight into almost a hundred of them. If you expect to be able to hold them off at thirteen, you’re a bloody idiot.”

Oddly enough, his words were a comfort. Harry still had to fight the guilt and shame eating at his stomach walls. He’d cost them the match.

“We don’t blame you,” Pucey said.

As there was no way Bole, Bletchley, or Flint would’ve let that slide without challenge if they disagreed, Harry decided to believe them. Even Malfoy wasn’t glaring accusatorily, or even making snide commentary. Shocking.

“My broom,” he said suddenly. “Did anyone think to get it?”

They all hesitated.

“Tell me it didn’t disappear into the forest,” he said, stomach sinking.

“Er—not quite,” Justin said.

Even _Daphne_ looked sympathetic, which was Harry’s biggest clue that something was wrong.

“It—well—it sort of flew into the Whomping Willow,” Hermione said.

“You know the Willow,” Bletchley said. “It hits back.”

Derrick knelt, picked up a bundle, and put it on the bed. Harry flipped it open, already knowing what he’d find.

Shattered black wood, a silver bit of lettering saying _mbus 2_ , and a pile of twigs was all that remained of his broom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently received the very great honor of a reader offering to translate Den of Snakes into German. The link to the translation is included in the beginning notes of Ch1 of Den of Snakes, but if I have any readers interested, here's the URL: 
> 
> https://www.fanfiktion.de/s/5a6364200008d3951fe156e0/1/Sarkasmus-und-Slytherin-Harry-Potter-und-der-Bau-der-Schlangen
> 
> Endless gratitude to guest user Luna for their time and effort!!! And as always, thanks to Sear for her wonderful, wonderful work as my beta!


	6. Magical Exploration

Adding insult to injury, the Nimbus racing broom company had back orders of Nimbus 2001s from professional teams around the world, and weren’t allowing anyone to place new orders until January. Harry got a Nimbus 2000 from the Slytherin team stores and had to push himself to his limits and beyond to even match Pucey and Flint in practice. He told himself it would make him a better flier, and knew this was the truth, but that didn’t do much to help.

The Gryffindors were unbearable. Jules wasn’t too bad but he did nothing to stop Ronald and Finnegan and sometimes Thomas from dramatically reenacting Harry’s fall off his broom on Monday when Harry was allowed to leave the hospital wing and rejoin his peers for breakfast. He resolutely ignored them since he couldn’t curse them from the opposite side of the Great Hall and began planning some payback.

The twins beat him to it. When they all got to their Potions lecture that evening, Harry was delighted to see all four Gryffindor idiots sporting full faces of clown makeup that he heard Parvati telling Lavender “would not wash off”. He’d need to ask the twins for that spell later. Snape spent a total of probably at least ten minutes over the course of the lecture making snide remarks about the boys’ makeup.

“Jules went to Professor Lupin,” Neville told him that Friday, speaking under the general noise of bubbling cauldrons and working knives. “He felt it too—much more strongly than anyone else, remember I told you his boggart turned into a dementor? —but the dementors were distracted by you, and he practically flew into the Snitch. There’s some kind of charm Lupin’s trying to teach him—”

“The Patronus Charm,” Hermione said, turning away from her own cauldron for a minute. Harry kept a corner of his awareness on his cauldron, monitoring his magic; luckily Growth Potion was a fairly stable brew and he could hold it at this step by stirring at a constant rate to listen to his friends. “It’s beyond NEWT level magic, I’ve no idea why he thinks Jules can learn it now…”

“Magic’s about necessity,” Harry said, making a mental note to lend Hermione _Esoteric Incantations_ and talk to her about his and Theo’s latest theory regarding spells and framing. “If Jules needs it badly enough, wants it badly enough, he’ll figure it out.”

Hermione shook her head as she turned back to her own cauldron. “Dementors, around a _school_ ,” he heard her mutter. “Dumbledore’s mad…”

“She’s coming around,” Neville muttered, grinning a little bit and going back to his own Growth Potion. Harry absently reminded him to relight the fire under his cauldron before starting the spiral stirs that would finalize the brew. “Oh, one other thing—evidently Jules is convinced Snape was trying to poison Lupin.”

“Lupin was ill,” Harry said. “Snape probably brought him a potion to help him recover.”

“That’s what Hermione and I said, but Jules is not at his most rational about Snape,” Neville said.

Harry smirked. “Understatement of the year.”

Neville grinned.

They returned to brewing, but Harry’s concentration wasn’t as absolute as usual.

Patronus Charm. Hm.

 

Theo and Blaise and then Harry’s massive Charms compendium all backed Hermione up: the Patronus Charm was exceedingly difficult and required a high skill level. The book also said it required a happy memory to produce.

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry said. “The dementors suck _away_ your happy memories; how are you supposed to cast the charm when you’re faced with one?”

Theo shrugged. “Framing, again. Are you going to learn it with the frame, and then train yourself out of it, like Sitch said in _Esoteric?”_

Harry frowned. “I don’t think I have time. And even if I did, I really doubt that any of my memories is happy enough to power the charm. This book makes it sound like the memory has to be… really strong. Intent will have to be enough.”

“Good luck,” Blaise said, uncharacteristically serious. “You’re going to need it.”

 

On Sunday, Harry sat down in the library to do Snape’s essay on werewolves. He found himself unwillingly and morbidly fascinated. Some of the books he was reading—most, actually—implied they were vicious beasts who lost all humanity to the bite. A few claimed otherwise, describing werewolves as essentially humans with a curse, and the significant proportion of lycanthropes who turned into murderers or criminals had less to do with suddenly compromised morality and more to do with wizarding society throwing them out on their ears. It seemed that Africa and the Americas were doing much better than most of Europe and Asia with their treatment of werewolves. The books that showed this other perspective were all old editions not _banned_ per se by the Ministry but certainly frowned upon, shelved high and hidden. Luckily Harry was a good climber and had a lot of practice poking around libraries. He dedicated a paragraph of his essay to discussing the apparent Ministry prejudice against werewolves and another to comparing the lycanthrope policies of the governing magical bodies of various regions and had to force himself to return to the more practical side of the matter before he got sucked down a hole of policy, history, and political theory.

 _Lycanthropes are compelled to change form with the phases of the moon_ , his text read. _As the time of the full moon approaches, a lycanthrope’s physical strength increases as his grip on his temper weakens. Lycanthropes are most dangerous within the three days before their change: they retain their human reason but the beast within them is closest to the surface, eroding their humanity and morality._

_On the night of the full moon, lycanthropes will change form either when they see the moon itself, or at the moon’s zenith if they are indoors. No known form of concealment is enough to separate a lycanthrope from the moon. Chains and bars of silver may contain them, as can magically reinforced buildings and doors. Lycanthropes in their wolf forms are rabid, inhuman monsters incapable of either conscience or mercy._

_The invention of the Wolfsbane Potion in 1983 changed some ramifications of the werewolf curse. Taking a full dose of the potion the night of the full moon before the change allows werewolves to retain some sense of humanity while in their wolf form. Some evidence suggests that those who have given in to the beast and embrace the moon-madness are affected to a lesser degree or not at all by the potion, while those who fight the curse can take it and render themselves relatively harmless. However, the potion is immensely complex, prone to emitting large quantities of poisonous gas if brewed incorrectly, and made with several extremely rare and expensive ingredients, complicating the potential benefits offered by this potion. Few Potions Masters are capable of attempting Wolfsbane and those that do sell it for a price that is outside most lycanthropes’ capability to pay, as their affliction makes it exceedingly difficult for them to hold down a steady job._

_In the days immediately after the change, lycanthropes’ bodies are weakened and prone to illness, a side effect that seems more pronounced among those who fight their curse. Unless a more serious illness is contracted during this time of weakened immune response, most lycanthropes recover within three to five days and return to their normal physical condition until the time of the full moon approaches again._

_They toll of the moon cycle causes werewolves to appear to age more quickly than other wizards. Few lycanthropes manage to live within society long enough to die of natural causes, so it is difficult to say whether the lycanthropic affliction actually shortens an afflicted wizard’s life span or if the short average life expectancy of a lycanthrope is a result of societal factors._

_One can tell a lycanthrope from a common wolf by the following physical characteristics…_

Harry dutifully took notes. He remembered hearing somewhere that werewolves had sided with Voldemort in the last war. This seemed a bit odd to him. If Voldemort had been so convinced that Muggles were dirty beasts to be exterminated, it wasn’t logical that witches and wizards with the werewolf curse would be accepted. Especially since another book had done a study of werewolf packs both criminal and law-abiding throughout Europe, Africa, and North America, and discovered that the difference in Muggle versus wizard population had resulted in werewolf packs consisting of sixty-seven percent Muggles who’d received accidental bites. Then again, Voldemort had been a Slytherin, and Slytherins were not the House of standing on principle if it meant losing the battle. Slytherin was the House of doing what it took to accomplish your goals, including allying with those you considered dirty or inferior.

Still. The werewolves couldn’t all be idiots. Possibly sadists and criminals, but not idiots. They wouldn’t have formed such an alliance in the first place without receiving promises in return and being given reason to believe Voldemort would actually keep his promises once he’d won. It couldn’t have been access to Wolfsbane, since the potion hadn’t even been _invented_ when the war was fought. Which made even less sense, actually—if no one had any idea that there was a way to partially neutralize werewolves, it would’ve been even _harder_ to get a cultlike group of blood supremacist bigots to accept an alliance.

The recipe for Wolfsbane was nowhere in any of the textbooks. Harry made himself finish the two rolls of parchment before he went and searched for it in the Potions section of the library. Nothing there, either. He eyed the Restricted Section, but there was no way to get past the wards without tipping off the entire staff, not until he got better with runes. A _lot_ better.

Maybe he could track down a book containing the recipe in Knockturn over the summer. Harry might have asked Snape, but the Potions Master had a tendency to accuse all Potters of arrogance and foolhardiness, and an interest in Wolfsbane might be taken as an interest in _brewing_ Wolfsbane, which for a thirteen-year-old would definitely be arrogant and foolhardy. Harry just wanted to study the process of such an interesting and new potion. He doubted he could convince Snape of that, though, so he tacked it onto his mental list of books to buy in Knockturn.

He wondered suddenly if Snape could brew the potion. Probably. Snape was one of the youngest wizards or witches to gain a Mastery in Potions in the history of the master-apprentice system of teaching, which dated back literally thousands of years. He was already responsible for brewing all the potions needed for the entire castle—there were several students who needed medicinal potions for health issues like anemia, and Harry knew Madam Pomfrey only used Snape’s work in the hospital wing instead of ordering her potions from St. Mungo’s or a third party. And, apparently, Snape took his brews directly to the staff, since Jules had seen him bring Lupin a nasty-looking potion the previous Friday.

Harry frowned suddenly. Snape hated Lupin. Harry knew Snape; he was _exactly_ the sort of person who would pettily refuse to brew a potion for Lupin unless he was specifically ordered to by the only person Harry had ever seen him back down to—specifically, Dumbledore. Odd, that Snape should directly administer a potion, and not Madam Pomfrey—to the best of Harry’s knowledge, in all other cases, Snape brewed and delivered to the hospital wing, while Madam Pomfrey saw to the distribution and use of his potions.

Quite suddenly, he realized there was an idea lurking in his mind. Not one he dared acknowledge, or voice—but he had to check—

Harry pulled out his planner and his Astronomy lunar charts and went back over the first few months of school. It took only two minutes to determine that the evidence corroborated his theory. Lupin’s periodic illnesses—tiredness, bags under his eyes, raspy voice, a weary smile—they matched perfectly to classes that had fallen within a few days of each full moon. The rest of it fit. His shabby robes proved that he’d struggled to make a living despite being a very capable Defense instructor and wizard, which even the Slytherins could admit he was, when they set aside his preference for anyone who didn’t wear silver and green. He’d been a friend of James Potter’s and could’ve had a good social standing after the war but he’d left and “traveled”. Harry didn’t buy that he couldn’t bear the pain of having lost two good friends—one to death, the other to Azkaban. That should’ve driven Lupin to cling harder to James. Unless social pressure drove him away until he was desperate and Dumbledore needed a Defense instructor.

With a grim smile, Harry added Lupin to Dumbledore’s list of people. Hagrid. James. The Weasleys weren’t in his pocket as deeply as others, but he knew Arthur harbored a great respect for the man and half of their children—discounting the elder two, who Harry’d never met—were firmly convinced that Dumbledore was the root of all good things in the world. Lupin, though—he was like Hagrid. Someone disadvantaged, someone Dumbledore could’ve saved and made _respectable_ twelve years ago, but no, Dumbledore left him out in the cold until he had need of him, making sure that his offer of a teaching position would come at the best possible time, making sure Lupin would see him as both savior and sage.

Just to be thorough, Harry checked he was alone, cast a silencing ward, and pulled his bag open. _“Eriss, hey, wake up.”_

The snake blinked up at him sleepily. She rested almost all the time now, usually in his bag in a nest made of magically warmed worn-once cotton shirts because she said the scent of him was comforting. They liked staying together but with her lethargy it made little sense for her to hide under Harry’s robes as she’d been doing all year. Eriss was growing, too—Harry suspected she’d reach a point this summer where even Notice-Me-Nots wouldn’t be powerful enough to keep people from noticing he had a _snake_ hidden under his robes and draped across his shoulders.

But that was a problem for the summer. _“Yes?”_  she said, a bit irritably.

_“Remember when you told me Lupin smelled strange?”_

_“I’ve never scented anything like it.”_

_“Okay, but—last summer, I met a large dog on the way to the Leaky Cauldron. I told you about it. Did you happen to scent my clothes after that incident?”_

Eriss paused. _“I… yes. Oh… I sssee. Yes, if I think about it… there was sssomething similar between them… very little, but the strangeness about smelly Lupin more resemblesss the dog-scent than any other I’ve encountered…”_

 _“Lupin’s a werewolf,”_ Harry said, finally voicing what he’d been fairly sure of for about ten minutes now.

That woke Eriss up. _“What? Werewolves are dangerous, are they not?”_

 _“In general. But the books said they get more ill afterwards if they’re the type of werewolf who fights their curse, and he always looks horrible after full moons. There’s another one coming up over Christmas, and one in January. I can keep an eye on him and see if the pattern holds. Plus he’s taking Wolfsbane from Snape, if I’m right. And he’s done absolutely nothing harmful. He’s actually one of the most mild mannered professors.”_ Which, now that Harry thought about it, might be the result of years spent living with rabid instincts that turned his temper into dry tinder just _waiting_ for a spark. That would motivate anyone to learn self-control.

 _“If he becomes dangerous, I shall give you my venom, and you can slip it in his meals,”_ Eriss declared.

Harry smirked at her. _“Your care for my well-being is appreciated. “_

 _“You’re my master,”_ she said sleepily, wriggling farther down into the warmed clothes. _“Of course I care.”_

In the end, Harry decided to tell only Theo, Neville, and Blaise. They were his closest friends and the four of them trusted each other. Even so, Harry had to spend half an hour talking Blaise out of going straight to Snape, or his mother, or the Prophet, or all of the above. It was only showing them the book’s hypotheses that the less dangerous werewolves felt the side effects more keenly, and were even affected by Wolfsbane, and pointing out that Snape clearly already knew and had gone along with it, to talk Blaise down. Theo and Blaise agreed to let Lupin alone unless he started acting oddly. Neville just shrugged and said he was a decent bloke and he could hardly help turning into a wolf once a month.

Harry did resolve then and there that no matter how hard the Patronus Charm became, there was no way he’d follow Jules’ lead and ask for Lupin’s help with it. Not because of the werewolf curse—but because he was Dumbledore’s man through and through.

 

The Patronus Charm was hands down the hardest spell Harry had ever tried to learn. He quickly found that the holly wand cast felt less resistant to the idea of the charm and decided to learn with that one first before he moved on to mastering it with the ash wand as well. Even then, it took four hours of focused work before he managed to produce a puff of silvery white light from his wand, five before he could hold the lights steady in front of him as a kind of rippling, illuminated shield. A “corporeal” Patronus was supposed to take on the shape of an animal. Harry thought of Jules’ supposed lessons with Lupin and worked harder than ever. His brother was getting teacher help, but there was no one Harry trusted to ask. He’d have to get it on his own. Each time he cast the spell, it drained him, but slightly less than the time before.

Harry _would_ master it. Perhaps not this year. But as soon as he could. He couldn’t control the fact that he had worse memories than most of his peers and reacted so badly to the Dementors. (Even if sometimes he still slipped back into the mindset the Dursleys tried to instill in him—that he deserved everything they’d done.) What he _could_ control was finding whatever defense would work against the dementors and studying it so he could fix this weakness in his armor as soon as possible.

But a new development served to distract him from Patronus work, studying, and worrying about the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend and the end of November game between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, which would determine whether Slytherin still had a shot at the Cup. Harry had noticed the year before that the older students on the Quidditch team usually stayed behind and hung out in the team lounge after practice; he’d never asked what they did there or to join them, and they’d never offered. After the early November game, however, something seemed to have changed, and Bole told him with a deceptively casual bearing that Harry could join them if he wanted.

Curious, he shrugged and agreed.

It turned out to be a sort of study group/dueling club/social gathering. The Carrow twins were there often, and Everett Kinney and seventh years Simon Fentiss and Luana Oakes, all of whom had gone after Harry in the past and made him quite wary. They were cool to him at first as well but once he proved himself an extremely capable student and particularly good with Arithmancy and Potions, they warmed to him, and after he narrowly defeated Kinney in a practice duel in mid-November, he seemed to have passed some kind of unspoken test.

For the most part, Harry obeyed Slytherin hierarchies and kept quiet, listening to their discussions and only chiming in when it had to do with a class he was currently taking or a book he’d read recently or Quidditch. The rest was mostly hints, only subtle, but enough for him to determine that the Carrows relied on the Notts and Flints for their standing in the Wizengamot, that Kinney’s family had some kind of covert uncodified agreement with Oakes’; that many of them honestly thought Malfoy was an obnoxious ponce with no idea what it meant to be a Slytherin. Malfoy hadn’t even noticed that Harry was no longer walking back up to the castle at the same time as he did. Harry understood that he was being given a glimpse into a world he’d so far been completely shut out of, and paid close attention. Wondering if they knew they were giving information that could be used against them to a political enemy.

Wondering if they knew he was less sure of his position as their enemy with every passing after-practice gathering, because if Harry was completely honest… the political opinions they “let slip” around him… well. They made sense.

He hid his discomfort and said nothing to his friends about the questions he was beginning to ask. Blaise, Neville, and Theo knew, more or less, what went on in the after-practice sessions; the rest probably had a good idea but never asked and Harry never volunteered more information.

To his delight, in the match at the end of November, Ravenclaw’s Chasers trounced Gryffindor for two and a half hours before the Snitch was finally caught, which meant Gryffindor only won by a ten-point margin. Practice was nearly over for the term but the Slytherin team went about their flying with renewed determination. They still had a shot at the Cup, as long as they beat Hufflepuff and flattened Ravenclaw and Gryffindor next term.

 

Somehow the schedule worked out to give them a Hogsmeade trip on the last weekend before the holiday break. Eriss, Mariko, and the other snakes hadn’t made any progress on figuring out the witch’s incantation, but he’d spent a fair bit of time practicing rune- and wand-based spells involved with discovering secrets and understanding the structure of other spells. He was confident that with a bit of work he could get through, hopefully in time to have an hour or so in the village.

Harry’s friends had no idea about the passage. He fully intended to surprise them once he made it to Hogsmeade.

Whistling, he wandered across the courtyard, exchanging a cordial nod with Malfoy as the blond made his way down to the line of students waiting for Filch to sign them out. The Carrows, Pucey, Kinney, and Derrick were heading into the Great Hall for breakfast when Harry passed by and surprised him by bothering to acknowledge him. Most of them were cool but Derrick, always one of the warmest on the team, actually grinned. Harry grinned back. _Finally_ , he was starting to carve out some respect in his House’s older students.

He took a back way up to the third floor that involved three secret passageways, two trick staircases, and a door that pretended to be a painting except on Mondays from one to three p.m. The route was designed to confuse anyone who might be following him. Not that he thought anyone actually was. Harry just made a habit of taking numerous precautions before he broke any rules. Slytherin rule 2: never get caught.

It came as a shock, then, that he’d barely gotten ten meters down the third-floor Defense corridor when he heard the same secret passage he’d just exited grind open once more. Harry spun around, settling into a practiced defensive stance, holly wand leaping to his hand—

But it was just George and Fred, walking up to him with their hands in their pockets and identical wicked grins on their faces.

Harry lowered his wand and smirked back at them.

“Quite a merry chase—”

“—you led us on, Harrykins.”

“We might almost think—”

“—you didn’t want our company.”

“Which is impossible.”

“We’re delightful to have around.”

Harry eyed them both. “How’d you follow me? I’m fairly certain at least one of those passages hadn’t been used in years before I found it two months ago.”

“This way,” George said, jerking his head.

Curious, Harry followed. The one-eyed witch statue could wait.

The twins led him to an abandoned classroom littered with broken dueling dummies. Fred boosted himself up to sit on a desk while George leaned back against it next to his twin.

“We followed you using this,” Fred said, pulling out a ratty piece of parchment with a flourish.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “May I?”

Fred handed it over.

 _“Specialis revelio,”_ Harry murmured, tapping his wand to the parchment.

Instantly, black spidery lines wrote themselves across its surface.

 

_Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs would like to inform the latest intruder to mind their own business._

Harry’s eyes widened. He looked up at the twins. “What is this?”

“Go on, talk to it,” George said, smirking.

Harry got the distinct sense they were testing him somehow. Talk to a piece of parchment. Okay.

“Who are you?” he asked it. 

 

_Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs are the greatest mischief-makers to ever walk the hallowed halls of Hogwarts._

“I’m sitting across from a couple of twins who might give you a run for your money,” Harry said, grinning up at Fred and George, who stared back innocently. He didn’t really have a plan at this point, which wasn’t his _favorite_ position to be in, but any decent Slytherin could improvise when they had to.

 

_Mr. Moony finds himself curious whether this intruder is friends with those twins._

“Yes,” Harry said. “Fred and George are definitely my friends.”

“Aww, Harrykins, we’re touched.”

“Truly inspired.”

“Shut up, you two,” he said, smirking, and looked back down at the map.

 

_Mr. Wormtail thinks that the intruder has found himself some good friends._

_Mr. Prongs wonders if the intruder might reveal his name._

“Should I?” Harry asked the twins.

Fred shrugged. “We told it ours. Haven’t been possessed or kidnapped by faeries.”

“Harry Potter,” Harry told the map.

It took noticeably longer to respond this time.

 

_Mr. Padfoot suspects the hearing charms are faulty. Did the intruder say Harry Potter?”_

“Er,” Harry said, “yeah…”

 

_Mr. Prongs would like to express his delight that the latest Potter is continuing the sacred tradition of rule-breaking._

Harry frowned. “You know m—the Potters?”

 

_Mr. Moony remembers the Potters well._

_Mr. Wormtail considers James Potter a highly entertaining individual._

_Mr. Padfoot adds that James Potter was entirely too concerned with the state of his hair and with one Lily Evans._

“Were you in school together?” This was fascinating. That students had created a semi-sentient object and stored copies of their personalities in it was nothing but astounding. The magic—

Actually, scratch that. It was also concerning. Harry distinctly remembered a certain diary with a copy of a highly dangerous individual in it.

He looked up at the twins. “Doesn’t this remind you of a certain diary?” he asked.

“It’s harmless,” George said. “We’ve been using it for years. You’ll see.”

 

_The Marauders were indeed in school at the same time as James Potter._

 

“Marauders,” Harry repeated. So a gang of mischief-makers, then, clearly magically skilled and not oblivious to the need for secrecy. “Would I be wrong in assuming this is more than a way for you to talk to future pranksters?”

 

_Mr. Moony is delighted that Mr. Potter seems to make far better use of his brain cells than James Potter ever did._

_Mr. Padfoot seconds this, and adds that Mr. Potter is entirely correct._

_Mr. Prongs would like to inform Mr. Potter that this parchment is an extremely useful tool._

_Mr. Wormtail clarifies that it is only useful for those who are up to no good._

There was a slight pause before the last four words wrote themselves on the page. Harry narrowed his eyes. Okay, so there was some kind of password… and he had to figure it out. Like a riddle. And _up to no good_ was part of it.

“How d’you know I’m not lying?” he said. “I might not be out to make mischief.

 

_Mr. Wormtail is quite certain that if Mr. Potter has made friends of Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley, he can most likely be trusted._

_Mr. Moony agrees, but perhaps a solemn oath would be in order._

“Oath,” Harry mused, staring at the parchment. “Oath…”

He looked up at the twins. Their grins had widened.

“I do swear that I am up to no good,” he said, tapping the map.

Nothing happened.

He ran back over the conversation in his mind.

Oh. Dur. “I do solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The handwriting appeared again, tracing elegant lines over the surface of the parchment. _The Marauders’ Map._

And then, a wonder.

It transformed from a single bit of grubby old parchment to an elaborate set of interconnected papers, folding and intersecting until it created an impossibly complex and beautiful map of Hogwarts Castle. And—there was _movement._ Harry peered closer and gasped.

The Map showed _people._

“Is it accurate?” he said in wonder.

“One hundred percent.”

“Never failed us yet.”

Harry tapped the third floor and paper flipped; the corridor came into greater focus. Sure enough: Fred Weasley, George Weasley, and Hadrian Potter were standing in an empty room on an otherwise empty hall. Well, not technically, there was Remus Lupin in his office. Harry took a few steps to his right and the label reading _Hadrian Potter_ moved with him.

“Incredible,” he breathed. “How did you find this?”

The twins snickered. “Well, when we were young and innocent—”

“—more innocent than we are now, at least—”

“—Filch hauled us off to his office for setting off Dungbombs.”

“Threatened us with the usual—”

“—dismemberment—”

“—detention—”

“—and we couldn’t help but notice a drawer labeled _Confiscated: Dangerous.”_

“Fred set off another few Dungbombs and I got the drawer open and nicked this while Filch was distracted.”

Harry shook his head at their Gryffindorishness. It would’ve been much safer to simply go back later. Merlin knew Filch was somewhere between a Squib and a weak wizard himself; it wasn’t as if it would’ve been difficult to get through any wards he could cast for as talented a pair as the Weasley twins. But it’d worked out, so he didn’t say anything. “So this is how you followed me?”

“We were going to talk to you anyway.”

Fred shrugged. “But then we saw you skulking away from the dungeons _and_ the Grand Staircase.”

“So we followed.”

Harry sighed. “No wonder you’ve never gotten caught.”

“You’re no slouch yourself, Harrykins.”

“We didn’t actually know about that last passage,” George added. “And neither did the Map. It appeared on there right before we walked out into the corridor. Seems if the user finds anything new while using the Map, the Map incorporates the new passage.”

“Whoever the Marauders were, they were geniuses,” Harry said fervently.

Movement caught his eye, and he looked down in time to see a portion of the Map wipe blank for the Marauders’ words.

 

_Mr. Moony thanks Mr. Potter, and notes that Mr. Moony shall accept his compliment, as Mr. Moony did nearly all the spellwork._

_Mr. Padfoot protests this declaration and states that he did a significant portion._

_Mr. Moony points out that he said “_ nearly” _all the spellwork._

_Mr. Wormtail adds that Messrs. Wormtail and Prongs were invaluable parts of the process as well._

_Mr. Prongs protests this slander of his ability as a wizard._

_Mr. Moony acknowledges that the Map would not have been possible without Messrs. Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs._

Huh. Mr. Moony rolled over too easily, as far as Harry was concerned, but whatever, not his problem. “Credit where credit is due,” he said instead. “You lot are brilliant. How do I turn it off?”

“Just tap it with your wand and say, ‘mischief managed,’” the twins said.

Harry did as instructed, and the Map wiped itself blank, the canny folds and flaps disappearing until it once more looked grubby and mundane. He shook his head in admiration.

“Were you heading for the passage behind the one-eyed witch?” Fred said.

Harry nodded.

“How’d you find out about it?” George said.

“I had help,” Harry said, grinning. “Have you never noticed how many snakes live in this castle?”

The twins blinked. “That’s… a little creepy,” George said.

Harry shrugged. “Useful, for me. They like Eriss. You two can save me a lot of time, though. How do I get it open? The snakes don’t know the incantation.”

“ _Dissendium,”_ George said. “It comes up in Honeydukes’ cellar. Be careful when you leave.”

“I’ll cast a Notice-Me-Not,” Harry said. “Are you seriously just… giving this to me?”

“We know,” Fred said. “Your royal Slytherinness probably can’t understand it.”

“But we’ve learned what we need to, and it seems you’ve some things to teach the Map anyway.”

“We reserve the right to ask for it back when we want or need it for certain pranks.”

Harry nodded; it was a perfectly reasonable condition. He’d have shown off the Map and then demanded a daily fee anytime the other person wanted to borrow it, but his ideas for selling Muggle amenities to older students were already completely funding Fred and George’s experimentation and he wasn’t going to help them coerce him. “Done.”

“Happy mischief-making, Harrykins.”

“We’ll see you in Hogsmeade,” George said with a wink, and they slipped back out.

Harry shook his head, checked the Map again to make sure the corridor was still clear, wiped it, and set off for Hogsmeade.

The tunnel was long and dark, but dry. Eriss explored. Most of the time she was out of Harry’s wandlight, but occasionally she’d slither back by his feet and hiss excitedly about a strange scent or a snake-sized gap in the wall she wanted to pursue later. Harry listened with a half-smile.

Finally the tunnel started to slope up. He called Eriss back to him and eased her into place across his shoulders and left arm, cast a powerful Notice-Me-Not first on her and then on the both of them. He lifted the trapdoor carefully.

With only few centimeters of space, it was hard to tell exactly, but it looked like Fred and George had told the truth. Boxes were piled around him and the floor was dirt.

_“Is anyone there?”_

Eriss slipped out of his collar and reached up for the gap. Harry held it open a bit farther and she disappeared.

 _“No humans,”_ she hissed a few seconds later.

Harry shoved the trapdoor aside and scrambled out of the tunnel, picking Eriss back up as he did. The trapdoor disappeared into the dirt floor as soon as it closed. If he hadn’t known it was there, he never would’ve noticed.

Keeping to the edges of the room, he crept over to the staircase. There was another door at the top. Harry bit his lip. He could either sneak up the staircase and risk someone seeing him open the door, or wait for someone to come down to the basement and then sneak back out on their heels. The problem with the first option was that the Notice-Me-Not charm worked by guiding people’s attention over and around you as long as you didn’t do anything to draw attention to yourself, and a door suddenly opening on its own definitely drew attention. The problem with the second was that he had no idea how long he’d have to wait down here.

Harry made up his mind and started up the stairs. If nothing else, he could pretend to have been lost.

At the top, he paused to listen, and heard the wordless background noise created by a lot of children in one building. No voices nearby, no one specific. He’d risk it.

Harry turned the handle and slowly opened the door just a crack. A round woman had her back to him, working the counter; several sixth years were dumping piles of sweets on it. He took advantage of their distraction, slipped through the door, and darted around the counter into the crowd.

It was easy once he was in the main part of the shop. Harry didn’t take off the charm; he technically wasn’t allowed to be here and it wouldn’t do to have someone who knew that spot him and use it as blackmail. But even when he brushed shoulders with other people he was just another student in the crowd, nothing special, and their eyes skipped right over him. Harry smirked. He could see the appeal of invisibility.

Harry drank in the snowy rooftops, the signs, the students in their robes mingling with adult wizards and witches going about their lives. It was like Diagon Alley except more peaceful, and winter. It wasn’t perfect, he could see that much—people bickered, one of the pubs looked dingy and run-down, the snow in the cobbled street was dirty, a man in an alleyway chased a stray dog away from his compost bin. But it was beautiful. He never wanted to leave the wizarding world.

There was no sign of Blaise or Theo anywhere along Hogsmeade’s main street. The side streets appeared to be residential. Harry couldn’t imagine why they’d go wandering off to look at houses and looked around, wondering where else they might’ve gone.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. Harry looked sharply towards the trees. Nothing unusual, nothing alive… he decided it must’ve been a bird or something and started to turn away, until a signpost caught his eye.

Oh. Duh. He’d heard the ghost stories about the Shrieking Shack. Justin would be curious, Hermione would want to look just because of her natural skepticism, Blaise and Theo would be morbidly interested and try to hide it. It surprised him not at all to see a number of medium-sized footprints in the snow along the path that led where the signpost indicated. Snickering, Harry set off after them.

He’d been walking for maybe five minutes when voices came from around a curve in the path. Harry cursed internally. No time to hide, and the Notice-Me-Not wouldn’t keep them from spotting a single person in the snow walking the opposite direction. He’d just have to bluff.

“—see that mangy mutt in town?” Finnegan’s voice. Harry would know his accent and obnoxiousness anywhere. “It looked greasier than Snape.”

“I got too close to it.” Jules, disgusted. “It stank like it’s been living in an unvanished garbage pile.”

“Probably has,” Ronald said.

They turned the corner. Smiles and laughter twisted into ugly scowls as the Gryffindor boys’ eyes landed on Harry.

“Jules,” Harry said pleasantly. “Finnegan, Weasley. Would you mind telling me if anyone else was out by the Shrieking Shack? I’m looking for my friends.”

“As if you have any real friends,” Ronald said, flushing an ugly shade of red.

Harry stared at him. “I’d applaud you for branching out from _slimy git_ and _Slytherin filth_ , but honestly, that was pathetic and stupid. Of course I have friends. Two of them are in your House.”

“Your whole lot’s out there still,” Jules broke in, glaring at Harry. “Looking for ghosts. Probably your Death Eater pals want to recruit dark spirits.”

Harry resisted the urge to rub his temples. “In case you hadn’t noticed, two of my friends are Muggle-born and the Longbottoms are hardly on good terms with Voldemort’s cronies. I don’t think we’re exactly Death Eater recruitment material. Please get better insults. Excuse me.”

He tried to step around them, already done playing games with Gryffindors, but Finnegan grabbed his arm. “We know what you really think of Muggles,” he spat. “We know you blew up your aunt last summer. Probably decided she deserved it just for being a _great big filthy Muggle._ You wanna call my dad a filthy Muggle too? Tell me he’s lower than dirt?”

“Not sure what else I expected from Slytherin filth,” Jules muttered. “A Potter in the snake house…”

“Do get over yourselves,” Harry said boredly. Maybe he’d been too tight-lipped about his life at the Dursleys’ if people were thinking he’d blown up Marge for _fun._ “I had an outburst of accidental magic thanks to the aunt who greatly enjoyed adding _attacked by her vicious dog_ to the list of regular abuses the Dursleys were partial to. Now, Finnegan? Take. Your hand. Off me.” On the last five words, Harry lowered his voice slightly and glared straight at Finnegan with all the force he could muster.

Startled, the Gryffindor let go.

Harry shot them all a pleasant smile. His fingers twitched towards his wand and hexes and curses sat on the tip of his tongue, but he already wasn’t supposed to be out here, so he held himself in check and walked on past them. The skin on his back itched. Harry was tense and waiting, ready to dodge and fire back if any of them aimed a hex at his back, but none came, and he relaxed slightly as he turned the corner.

Eriss poked her head out of his collar. _“It is cold,”_ she complained. _“Can I go in your bag now?”_

 _“Of course,”_ Harry said. He pulled his bag off his shoulder and knelt in the snow, opening it so Eriss could slither down his arm and into its depths.

 _“I hate them,_ ” she said from inside. _“They shouldn’t be allowed to speak to you like that.”_

 _“I know.”_ Harry reached in and rubbed her belly a little. _“I’ll keep beating them at every turn and eventually people will know I’m better.”_

 _“Good…”_ Eriss was clearly already drifting off to sleep in the comfort of Harry’s magically warmed shirts. He shook his head, closed his bag, and kept walking, trying not to fume about Jules. Clearly being back in Gryffindor was not doing wonders for Jules’ opinion of Harry.

Or possibly it was James. Harry had kept in fairly regular owl-post contact with his father—“fairly regular” being “about once a month”—and every letter he got back was stilted and awkward. James clearly hadn’t the faintest clue how to deal with the son he’d abandoned coming back, being a Slytherin, and not taking any of the Potter bullshit. Harry got sicker of his father’s attitude every time he saw James’ owl Achilles winging for the Slytherin table.

 _You’re doing a terrible job not fuming_. Harry schooled his thoughts with Occlumency just before the path opened up into a clearing which Theo, Neville, Justin, Pansy, and Daphne were using as a battleground for a snowball fight.

Harry stopped dead. Daphne. In a snowball fight.

Blaise and Hermione were sitting on a log off to one side. Hermione waved and Blaise smirked when they saw him. Harry raised a finger to his lips, smirking back, and inched into the clearing.

Theo, Pansy, and Neville had a bit of a barricade of snow and were using it as cover against Justin and Daphne. “Got you!” Neville shouted. He’d landed a snowball in Justin’s face.

“Boomerang!” Theo yelled. He’d nailed Daphne in the face. Harry choked on a laugh. He clearly needed to get Justin to stop teaching Theo incorrect Muggle slang.

Daphne started raining snowballs down on the fort, causing all three to duck their heads down.

Harry pointed his wand at the snow. _“Wingardium leviosa,_ ” he whispered, concentrating.

A large clot of loose snow lifted up off the ground and floated forward.

Justin and Daphne froze, eyes wide.

“Wha—” Theo said.

Harry ended the spell. The snow collapsed on Theo, Neville, and Pansy’s heads. All three of them screamed.

“Bravo,” Blaise said, walking over with his hands in his pockets. “Masterful timing.”

“Why thank you.” Harry tucked his wand away.

Justin and Daphne jogged over from the other side of the clearing.

“We didn’t need your help,” Daphne sniffed.

“I never said you did,” Harry said, shrugging. “I didn’t do it to help you, I did it because I thought it’d be funny.”

“It was,” Justin said.

Theo scrambled upright, brushing snow out of his hair and glaring. “Says _you._ ”

“Yes, says me,” Justin agreed.

Harry snickered at the look on Theo’s face.

Neville was more forgiving, taking it with a laugh, but Pansy shook snow out of her scarf while glaring viciously enough at Harry that he resolved to check his dinner for mild poisons that night.

“So, Harry,” Blaise said. “Care to explain how you’re here?”

Harry cast a privacy charm. He’d gotten quite good at these this year. It wouldn’t be difficult for someone else to take down, but he’d know if anyone did, and up until then their group had a bubble of silence. He told them about the Marauders’ Map.

Hermione’s eyes were wide. “That’s incredibly advanced magic. Not to mention potentially dangerous. Remember what Mr. Weasley said last year? Never trust anything that can think for itself unless you know where it keeps its brain!”

“Fred and George have been using it for years,” Harry said. “They’re fine. And I need to do research, but I think it’s an adaptation of the spell that imbues portraits with a bit of their subject’s personality and independence, but no free will, not true sentience.” He paused. “If I start acting oddly, take it away from me and hide it somewhere.”

“Deal,” Theo said. “In the meantime, this is _dead_ useful.”

Harry nodded fervently. He and Theo had gotten quite good at creeping around after curfew, but now they wouldn’t need the snakes’ help nearly so much. Harry resolved to keep bribing them to scout, though. He was pretty sure at least a few of them really enjoyed it and having the castle snakes on his side could prove extremely useful in the future.

He canceled the privacy charm and they started back towards Hogsmeade.

“You’re not worried about Black?” Justin said.

Harry shrugged. “I figure he’s after Jules first, me second. If—”

“—the Ministry story is true?” Pansy finished. She eyed him shrewdly. “Has Mr. Weasley turned up anything interesting?”

“Not that he’s told me,” Harry said. “Or the twins. I checked with them last week.”

“But the fact that he hasn’t found anything is interesting?” Theo finished.

Harry pointed at him. “Got it in one.”

“Plus the dementors,” Neville said.

Blaise snorted. “Neville, Black already got past them twice, and the Ministry’s no clue how he did so, either time. They’re pretending to know what they’re doing when really all they can do is pray to Merlin the dementors work this time.”

“While Dumbledore prays his idiotic decision to allow them to put those things around a _school_ doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass,” Daphne said.

“Did James…” Neville didn’t have to finish the sentence. Harry laughed bitterly.

“Oh, he sent a reprimand to the school governors, and he made very sure to write me and tell me how he was doing his best to make sure nothing similar ever happened again. Meanwhile, I had to find out from _Draco Malfoy_ of all people that his _father_ , who knows the duties of a governor backwards and forwards despite being kicked off the board after he was accused of giving Megan Jorkins a Dark artifact last year, told him it was a token gesture at _best_. Nothing with any real clout in it, which is weird because as Lord Potter, James could’ve rained hell down on the school for letting dementors in. I’m sure if it had been his precious Boy Who Lived nearly falling to his death he would have.”

Silence for a few seconds. Harry frowned at the snow under his feet. He wanted to get back to Hogsmeade and go to the bookstore and the sweet shop and have fun and wipe these thoughts from his mind.

 “Harry, are you sure Malfoy wasn’t just telling you this to be a prat?” Justin said.

Harry shrugged. “I thought he might, so I took it to Noah Bole—he owes me for getting him through his Arithmancy mid-year exam. _He_ took it to his older brother. They both said Malfoy was telling the truth.”

 “Your father’s a git and Dumbledore has no business running a school,” Neville said finally. “Gran said so all the time when I was younger. I’ll have to tell her I know what she meant about both of them now.”

Hermione shook her head grimly.

 

Harry knew full well that Blaise and Theo were looking forward to going home over Christmas, and when Theo had mentioned possibly staying on over the holidays, Harry had just glared at them both until they gave in and passed the list on unsigned. He didn’t regret it, but it did mean he’d be the only third year staying in school for Christmas. Ginny was as well, plus the Carrow twins, Bletchley, and Flint.

 _What a happy family we’ll be_ , Harry thought, looking around the empty common room and registering who he’d agreed to stay here with.

 

_Hestia_

She knew she’d find Potter in the library because that was where he’d spent at least five or six hours every day since break started. Last night, he’d been telling the Weasley twins in the Great Hall that his schoolwork was finished but he had other things to do. They were scheduling a pickup Quidditch game that involved Bletchley, the Weasley terrors, and one of the Gryffindor Chasers. Hestia couldn’t care less about Quidditch but the question of what exactly Potter was doing in the library definitely interested her. She’d been meaning to talk to him anyway. She might as well see if she could glean some of his closely-held secrets while she was at it.  

Hestia’s eyebrows rose when she cast a powerful (and illegal) detection spell on the hidden library corner Potter favored. Not only did he have three anti-intruder wards and a privacy charm, but the charm was fourth year material, one of the wards was a rudimentary runeward, and the other two wards had been sixth-year material before they were banned as Dark in the wave of spell-censoring legislation that happened right after the Statue of Secrecy. Potter got more interesting every week. She’d thought he was another one of Dumbledore’s brainwashed cronies, sorted into Slytherin by mistake. It had taken until this year—and the Quidditch team’s intervention—for her to reluctantly admit she’d been wrong. He was every inch a Slytherin, he was highly intelligent, the rumors about his childhood had a lot more truth than she’d expected, and he at least was willing to be open-minded when they occasionally tested him by broaching certain ideological topics in the Quidditch lounge. And now Hestia had found him using illegal warding spells in the Hogwarts library.

 _What are you hiding?_ she mused, and prepared a spell.

Like Potter’s wards, the spell Hestia cast was illegal. It stripped all four of his enchantments away at once. She stalked around the corner and smirked at him. “Potter.”

Potter was on his feet in an instant, wand in hand. His reflexes really were excellent. “Carrow,” he said.

Then Hestia noticed a viper on the table. Black with green markings around its head. Two feet long, Loharian probably, and it was coiled and ready to strike.

Her confidence faltered. She didn’t know where to look—whether the third year with the Killing Curse-green eyes or the deadly snake on the table was the greater threat. They froze, three points in a triangle of uncertainty, waiting for someone to make the first move.

 _Fuck_ , Hestia thought, and forced herself to slowly lower her wand. She was the aggressor here. Much as she loathed it, she really should back down first if she wanted this to end any other way than a duel. Potter she could beat in a duel. Adding the snake to the equation changed everything.

“Illegal ward spells,” she said. “I’m impressed.”

“Yet they evidently posed you no challenge.”

It had taken more power than Hestia would ever admit for her to bring all his spellwork down at once. “Yes, well, you’re skilled, but I’ve got two years on you, Potter. You’re hardly the only student to engage in some independent study.” She looked pointedly at the table, which—if you could look past the snake—was covered in rune books that _definitely_ weren’t linked to their class.

Potter examined her. How had she never noticed exactly how green, and how _cold_ , his eyes were? Surely she hadn’t dismissed him to such a degree as to miss that…

“I’m not here to hex you,” she said. It galled her to do it, but Hestia slowly slid her wand into her pocket. “If that snake kills me, my sister knows where I am.”

Flora had wanted to come. Hestia had insisted one of them needed to play backup and as Flora hated talking to anyone who wasn’t her twin, that left Hestia to deal with the Slytherin Potter.

“She won’t bite unless you move to hurt me,” Potter said finally, and slid his wand back up into his forearm holster. He very slowly sat back down. “If you’re not here to hex me, have a seat, and let’s talk like civilized people.”

Based on his faint smirk, he knew perfectly well that sitting down across from a Parselmouth with his snake in between them was in no way _talking like civilized people_ , and also correctly guessed that she had something she wanted to talk about and so wouldn’t call him out on it.

Hestia went to sit. Potter’s and the snake’s eyes tracked her every movement.

“What’s its name?” Hestia said.

Potter cocked his head. “Why should I tell you?”

“How long have you been hiding a snake familiar?” Hestia countered. This was even more interesting than she’d expected. A _snake familiar_. And a really deadly one, at that. Dumbledore would never allow it and James Potter would have a stroke, which told her neither man knew.

He thought about that question. “Just this year,” Potter finally said. “I found her over the summer.”

“Impressive,” Hestia said. “I assume your friends know?”

Potter nodded slightly. He’d always been creepy impassive for his age. Even the Greengrass and Zabini heirs had a hard time matching his composure. Seeing it in full force was surprising. Again.

“So you’re close enough with Granger and Longbottom that a couple of _Gryffindors_ keep this a secret,” she said. “A historic occasion.”

“Mmm. Speaking of which, you’ll be keeping this a secret as well, Hestia.”

She grinned at him. “How do you know?”

“You’ll be swearing an oath on your magic,” he said with confidence. Not arrogance. Even she had never accused the Potter heir of arrogance. He was quiet, careful, and only showed his hand when he had the advantage, all of which combined to make her wary of why he was doing so now.

“You can’t threaten me with your familiar,” she countered. “If I die here, Flora will go straight to Snape, the Headmaster, and our parents.”

Potter smirked. He casually stroked the viper with one hand. “You ought to have taken Care. This is a Loharian viper. I’ve done some research. Just last weekend, I learned that Loharians have two types of venom. One is lethal. One is a paralytic. If you refuse the oath, she’ll take you out of commission and I’ll erase your memories of this encounter. I’ve only practiced _Obliviate_ on school owls and Mrs. Norris, though, so I’m not one hundred percent sure it won’t leave any damage. On the other hand, you can take the oath and keep your memory.”

“Why would you even offer?” Hestia said. “And what about Flora? Not everyone’s twin is as much a prat as yours.”

“I’m aware,” he said drily. “I’m offering because if I would appreciate the two of you not considering me a walking target shielded only by Flint.”

He was hoping to strengthen the wary truce of the last year and a half into a true alliance, then. By letting her in on one of his secrets. Hestia could hardly fault him for taking precautions.

“And… if you vow to also make Flora swear such a vow before you tell her, then yes,” Potter said.

“Why not an Unbreakable Vow?” she said, just to test him.

Potter raised an eyebrow. “I’m a third year. I would highly doubt anyone below seventh could cast an Unbreakable. Besides, we’d need a bonder, and I’m not willing to bring anyone else into this.”

Hestia grinned at him. It was a pity to lose such an excellent blackmail opportunity as this. A vow on her magic would cause her to lose her magic if she broke it—clever Potter, knowing how terrifying that was to any witch worth her salt—but unlike an Unbreakable it bound her only to the letter and not the spirit of the vow. As long as he only made her swear not to _tell_ anyone, she could potentially _show_ them. If he used _reveal_ it would be harder, but she could always arrange for someone _else_ to find out, as long as the actual discovery was theirs. “I accept the vow.”

Potter drew his wand. “You’ll swear never to speak of or in any way reveal my serpent familiar’s existence or any aspect of my actions that is connected to her to anyone who doesn’t already know the secret. The exception is Flora Carrow as long as she makes a verbatim oath on her magic to you before you reveal anything.”

Hestia touched the tip of her wand to his. _“Vortus_ ,” he said. She repeated the oath.

Potter nodded and tucked his wand out of the way. He said something in a sibilant, hissing voice to his familiar—Hestia controlled how she automatically flinched at the sound of Parseltongue—and the snake relaxed, coiling up Potter’s left arm to rest around his shoulders. He absently reached up and ran his fingers over the snake’s abdomen. “Now that’s out of the way, what did you really come here for?”

Hestia paused to gather her thoughts. “It seems a bit trivial now,” she said with a smirk. “I was planning to extend an offer of alliance in exchange for your help with Arithmancy. You’re one of the top in the class.”

“No need for flattery, I know my class rank perfectly well,” Potter said. He raised an eyebrow. “You’d be better off asking Justin Finch-Fletchley. He’s consistently better than I am, and would probably be a more patient teacher than Granger.” He paused. “If, of course, you can bring yourself to work with a Mudblood.”

He was testing her, Hestia realized with not a little irritation. Little shit. Two could play at that game. “Blood matters,” she said, watching him closely. “Ability matters more.”

If Potter had any idea where that phrase came from, he gave no sign of it. Just shrugged. “All right, I’ll talk to him. Needless to say, you’d have to be polite.”

“Finch-Fletchley actually bothers to assimilate to wizarding culture,” Hestia said icily. So many didn’t. It made her furious. “He’s doing even better this year—I presume the Zabinis smacked him in the face this summer before the wedding. I reserve the title Mudblood for those that make no such effort.”

Potter reacted for the first time. Just a little bit of a frown on his forehead. She had no idea what it meant, but filed it away for further consideration.

“See you around,” she said with a grin, and left him there.

Hestia couldn’t wait to go back to the dorms and tell Flora all she’d just learned. She could maybe talk to Miles and hint that they’d definitely been right about Potter.


	7. An Eventful Christmas Holiday

_Harry_

The weird conversation with Hestia sat in Harry’s mind the rest of the day. Her finding Eriss threw her off a bit, but she recovered, and the sharp-edged Slytherin had given nothing away after that. It was one of the most unnerving—and, if Harry was being honest, engaging—experiences of his life. He’d gone toe to toe with one of Slytherin’s most dangerous students and come out… well, not on top, per se, but certainly no worse off than he had been before. They both gained something. That was the important part.

 He’d been spending a lot of time with Ginny, Fred, and George, playing Quidditch or card games, and when he wasn’t with them he was reading or working on his rune spell. The day after he talked to Hestia, Bletchley and his friend Adelina Rowle of Ravenclaw showed up at the Quidditch pitch and asked to join in. Fred and George only hesitated for a second before they agreed. The older students were a bit reserved but engaged in the game, and after that they’d occasionally drop by when Harry and the decent Weasley siblings were hanging out in the common leisure rooms, or offer to help Ginny with her Potions homework, or casually teach a certain spell during a Quidditch pickup game. Harry paid attention to the kinds of spells they brought up—all gray—and knew they were testing both the Weasleys and him. Fortunately, Fred, George, and Ginny didn’t appear to be anything other than interested. Harry wasn’t sure where their sudden friendliness was coming from but he was convinced it had to do with Hestia Carrow. The timing was too suspicious.

Theo and Harry also exchanged a lot of letters in the two weeks leading up to Christmas. They’d discussed this before Theo went home, of course, but neither of them had been able to contact the goblins from Hogwarts without raising suspicion, which meant they’d had to wait until Theo went home and then make the final plans via coded letter. Harry had taught Theo some Muggle codes since wizards tended to disregard all things Muggle.

They had most of their plans finalized by Christmas.

Harry, to his irritation, still could not cast a corporeal Patronus. He stubbornly kept working at it. Jules would almost certainly be getting instruction in it over the holidays.

 

Christmas morning, Harry woke at his usual time. He’d gotten out of bed and made it halfway to the bathroom before he realized what day it was.

 _“Eriss!”_ he yelled, running back into his dorm. Christmas was the one day a year when Harry let himself slip, and forget Slytherin politics and family drama and schemes. _“Eriss, wake up! Happy Christmas!”_

Eriss stuck her head bad-temperedly out of the bedcovers. The winter chill had finally and firmly gripped the castle a week before Christmas, and she no longer even wanted to ride around in his pack. At night she still liked his body heat but during the day she now preferred to stay in his trunk. And she did not like being woken up at all. _“I do not understand why you humans are so preoccupied with giving each other things,”_ she grumbled. _“If you want something, go take it, there’s no sense waiting around and hoping someone will just hand it to you.”_

 _“It’s fun,”_ Harry told her. _“Giving gifts is fun because it makes your friends happy, and getting them is fun because it means people care.”_

 _“I suppose._ ” Eriss flicked his arm with her tail. _“Snakes keep it simple. I still think that’s better.”_

 _“Of course you do, you are one,”_ Harry said with no small amusement.

She hissed bad-temperedly at him and dove back into the blankets.

Harry made sure to put a lot of warmth into the blankets before he left.

 

_Ginny_

Something about Christmas made Ginny wake up early. Always had, ever since she was little. In the Burrow, it was a day of family, of even more food than usual and love and laughter. The presents were a bonus but had always been practical and not the day’s main focus. Slytherins did it a bit differently, she’d found—family was still important, and laughter and connection and friendship, but giving and receiving gifts was huge. An art form, to some. Choosing the right gift for someone was an indication of how much you valued them and how well you knew them. Pansy had spent two hours lecturing Ginny about the whole mess her first year. It was crass to fall back on buying something expensive to make up for not choosing something with care for who it was for and what they’d meant to you. In the end, how much you’d spent wasn’t the deciding factor. That had come as a relief to Ginny, because even since she’d started helping Fred and George on their smuggling and experiments to earn a bit of money from them, she didn’t have much to spend.

She loved the way Slytherins did Christmas. She loved spending time choosing the right gifts and watching people open them, or seeing her friends use them later. It made her sad to be here in the dungeons, curled up in an armchair waiting for Harry, instead of at home or with her brothers… but Percy and Ron had cold shouldered her since her sorting, Mum and Dad didn’t know what to do with it when she didn’t bother to leash her tongue, and Bill wasn’t around. Only the twins. And they got distracted hassling Ron and Percy. Half the time Ginny was on her own. She couldn’t deny that she’d been glad to learn Harry was staying on over Christmas. It was a fantastic excuse to stay, too. _Oh, Mum, you know I worry about him, he’s ever so nice to all the younger students, but he hasn’t got anywhere to go over the holidays, he’s far too polite to ask to stay over at someone’s house—I’ll miss you, you know I will, but I wouldn’t feel right coming home and leaving him with only the upper year Slytherins for company. Plus, Fred and George and Ron are staying…_

Once Ginny probably would’ve felt guilty for lying to her mum like that. She couldn’t bring herself to anymore. She got to hang out with Harry and Fred and George, play Quidditch, avoid her parents and Percy, and get homework help from the upper year Slytherins, who seemed to approve of Harry more lately and by default her.

Hopefully Ron wouldn’t find out about that. He was already making snide comments about Ginny spending time with “Death Eater spawn.” Even _Jules_ was saying the same things. Ginny curled her lip, remembering them both griping about it last August, when she had Evalyn over for the day. “I don’t know how you used to have a crush on him,” Evalyn had muttered, staring at Jules. Ginny couldn’t help agreeing.

It was the last time she invited one of her Slytherin friends over. After that she went to Luna’s and so did Nat and Evalyn.

Ginny did wish she could be with them, but she couldn’t blame them for going home. Both had families waiting, no matter how dysfunctional. Ginny… well, she _did_ , she just got enough of them in the summers, thank you very much.

She’d been sitting in the common room for a solid two hours when Harry finally emerged. Head tilted back with a yawn and and hair mussed with sleep, he looked oddly like Jules.

Then his head tipped forward again, and the light hit the silver frames of his glasses and the sharp edges of his smile, and the illusion was gone.

Ginny grinned at him. “Happy Christmas, Harry.”

“Happy Christmas.” He flopped into a chair opposite her and pointed his wand at the tree, frowning. His pile of gifts lifted and levitated over to where they were sitting.

Ginny made a face. Evalyn had walked into the Knights Room a few months ago and found him practicing wordless magic, including the Levitation Charm. She and Ginny and Nat confronted him a few days later. He’d said flatly that controlling his accidental magic had been necessary for his survival as a child and it transferred to a very limited ability to cast low-level spells wordlessly. He was working on more. He made it out to be a small thing. It really wasn’t. Ginny remembered three of her brothers agonizing over wandless magic during their sixth years. Bill figured it out pretty quickly, Charlie at about the average pace, and Percy a little slower, which had driven him mad and made Ginny snicker all through her first year.

She and Harry went to work casting detection spells, found two hexed packages in Harry’s pile that made his expression darken as he levitated them into the fire, and tore into their gifts. Ginny tried, and she was slowly but surely turning Slytherin manners from a concentrated effort into habit, but Pansy had admitted it was fine for younger students to throw them out the window on holidays like Christmas when in the privacy of the common room. Ginny did so happily.

There were cards in Ginny’s pile from Pansy, Daphne, and Blaise; a book of Quidditch maneuvers from Demelza; an odd-looking but pretty bracelet from Luna that hummed with strange magic, had no explanation, and perfectly matched Ginny’s eyes; a book called _The Lost Art of Practical Dueling_ from the twins; the requisite sweater-and-food package from her mum; a pair of quality Quidditch goggles from Evalyn; sweets from Aria and the boys; a huge box of clothes, same as last year, from Nat.

Ginny frowned when she opened it. Robes, dresses, trousers, boots, blouses, skirts, and shorts—fashionable, in tasteful colors, practical and useful and (if she knew Nat) perfectly fitted. Most were wizarding style; some had begun to somewhat emulate Muggle fashion, since Nat said two high-end designers had recently hired a Muggle-raised halfblood to “spice up their ideas”.

“Why the frown?” Harry said. “That’s an excellent gift.”

“Nat’s a good friend,” Ginny said with a sigh. She looked at Harry suspiciously. She’d gotten Fred and George to admit just how bloody awful Harry’s Muggle clothes had been when they rescued him after first year. Maybe he would get it—at least, he’d probably come closer than most of the other Slytherins. “It’s just… well, last year Nat did the same thing… and when I went home for the summer wearing my new clothes, Ron and Charlie and Mum went through the roof.”

“Why?” Harry said, setting aside a set of books with old, cracked spines and indistinguishable titles. They looked like relics, and were probably gray or Dark, knowing both Slytherin House and Harry as Ginny now did. The thought didn’t unnerve her anymore.

Ginny shrugged, digging through the box a bit. Nat did have really good taste. “Ron—you know him.”

“Let me guess, he went off on a rant about you thinking you’re too good for them now,” Harry said, distaste in his tone.

“Nailed it.” Ginny felt herself flushing a bit in anger at the memory. “So of course I told him they were gifts, and it’s not _my_ fault I have better friends—”

“Ooh,” Harry said, wincing. “You could probably have exercised more tact there…”

Her flush worsened. Embarrassment, this time. “I know, I acted like a Gryffindor…”

“It’s forgivable,” he said, smirking. “You grew up in a house full of them. De-Gryffindorifying you might take a few years.”

She laughed. “Anyway. Then he got even _more_ mad, and Charlie told me off for accepting charity, and Mum was yelling at me for being ungrateful and also for wearing clothes that—I dunno, aren’t what Weasleys wear or some nonsense. I think she hated me dressing more like…”

“A pureblood from a middling-income family?” Harry said drily.

Ginny looked down at the box of clothes. “Yeah. That. Is it charity, Harry?”

“It’s not. Nat’s your friend, Ginny. It’s not as if you didn’t give her a gift in return that was chosen as carefully for her as this was for you. It’s not her fault her family has huge vaults and yours doesn’t.” She looked away again. Harry leaned forward, eyes suddenly intense. “No, stop. Slytherins don’t shy away from talking about this sort of thing. It’s factual. The Nielsens are old and wealthy. Your family’s old and not wealthy. Natalie saw that you probably felt a little out of place wearing secondhand robes and wanted to help out.”

“I was the _only_ one, though,” Ginny said. “Literally every single Slytherin upper year always had nice robes.”

Harry hesitated.

Ginny caught it. “What?” she said.

He smirked. “Observant. Maybe the de-Gryffindorifying will be easier than I thought. So—this isn’t something we share with other Houses, okay? Falls under rules one and six—house unity and Slytherin secrets. When we get students who can’t afford school supplies and books and decent robes, since the school scholarship funds only go towards Muggle-borns and orphans—” he rolled his eyes at this policy— “the seventh-year prefects are in charge of making sure they have what they need and can dress and present themselves so they represent Slytherin House well. We take care of our own. You know Ava Pucey? Current seventh-year prefect? She talked to me when I was a firstie and made sure I had access to the Potter vaults after my fight with James.” There was the flash of disdain that crossed his face whenever he spoke about his father. “Everett Kinney’s paternal grandfather cut Kinney and his mum out of the will completely when she divorced Kinney’s dad and took him to court for domestic abuse, and won. In his first year, the seventh years, especially those with wealthy families, kitted him out. Not a fortune but enough to make sure he had a full new wardrobe in his size and average materials, new books and potions supplies, et cetera.”

Ginny was staring at him in undisguised shock by the time he finished talking. “So if Nat hadn’t blackmailed me into going through catalogues with her…”

“Is _that_ what happened?” Harry said, laughing. “Remind me to compliment her when she comes back to school. Yeah, if she hadn’t, one of the prefects would’ve gotten the others together and made sure you had whatever else you needed.”

“Why didn’t Pansy know about this?” Ginny said.

“It’s not an openly talked about thing. The graduating prefects tell the rising seventh-year prefects about the tradition at the end of every year, and then if any of the firsties needs help they take care of it. Pansy wouldn’t know about it because no one in our year needed it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having secondhand or used stuff,” Ginny argued, feeling suddenly and irrationally like she had to defend her family.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Of course not. If you buy things used but in good condition, it saves a lot of money and usually works just fine. But it’s also important to look your best—it really helps with your confidence, with making a good first impression. Is it really so bad that Slytherin wants to make sure all the snakes have that opportunity?”

Ginny frowned. “I guess not…” It did make a lot of sense, and if she was being honest with herself she’d loved getting to wear the clothes Nat gave her last year. She liked being able to look nice and wear pretty clothes. Ginny was a tomboy. That didn’t mean she didn’t like occasionally putting on a dress or a pretty set of robes and looking nice. Only going home over the summer and dealing with her family’s reactions had made her hesitate.

“I grew up wearing my Muggle cousin’s nasty beat-up rags,” Harry said. “He used to purposely tear them and stretch them and grind them into the dirt so they were _horrid_ by the time I got them. Plus, he was about three times my size, so nothing fit. I got laughed at and mocked for it nearly every day. I made sure to buy a full wizarding wardrobe of high-end materials as soon as I found out about my trust vault, not because I think inheriting money proves your worth but because there is no shame in trying to protect yourself and present yourself well to the world. People can be cruel and irrational. I’d lay money if you _hadn’t_ worn Nat’s gift, Ronald would’ve turned around and mocked you for being the only Slytherin without fancy clothes.”

Ginny’s frown turned into a scowl at that, because Harry was right. As much as she loved her brother, lately she didn’t _like_ him much.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

Harry smirked at her. “Any time, Ginny.”

Ginny turned back to her pile of gifts, and then something under the tree caught her eye. She frowned at it. _“Wingardium leviosa_ ,” she said, and the object—a long, thin, wrapped parcel—floated through the air. Ginny levitated it carefully over to their table.

Harry barely looked up from a letter. “New broom?”

“It’s addressed to you,” Ginny said. “How’d you miss it?”

That got his attention. Harry set the letter aside and frowned at the package. “I didn’t see it.”

“I take it you didn’t order a new broom,” Ginny said.

“…no.”

Ginny frowned at the package, too. “I hate to say this, but giving you a cursed broom would be a really good way to get you hurt.”

“Don’t hate to say it,” Harry said absently, and cast a charm to detect malevolent spells. It turned up nothing. “It’s good to be wary… I highly doubt Jules is clever or powerful enough to come up with this… but the Potters do have enemies…”

It occurred to Ginny that Harry was in an awkward middle spot when it came to the Potters’ enemies. On the one hand, the Potter enemies _were_ his enemies. On the other, he was an outcast from his own family, and estranged, and maybe some of them would go easy on him because of it. A bit like Malfoy _hated_ Ron but completely ignored Ginny.

Harry cast all the detection spells he knew—Ginny was impressed; she hadn’t paid attention earlier since she was doing her own but he knew a lot more than she did—and turned up absolutely nothing.

“Go on, unwrap it,” Ginny said, leaning forward curiously. Bletchley, the Carrows, and Flint were sprawled on a cluster of sofas across the common room and shot them a curious look.

Harry peeled back the brown paper, opened the box, and froze.

“What’s…”

Ginny’s words died on her lips.

“What the bloody hell,” Harry whispered.

“That’s a _Firebolt_ ,” Ginny said reverently. “A _Firebolt_ , Harry. That’s the—fastest broom in the _world_ , even World Cup teams aren’t buying them yet—do you _know_ how much that cost—who would’ve bought you this? And can I fly on it?”

“I’ve an idea that it’s really ridiculously expensive, no idea who would’ve sent it to me, and yes you can fly on it as soon as I figure out it’s not hexed to kill me,” Harry said grimly.

Ginny winced. She’d gotten excited about there being a _bloody Firebolt by Merlin on the table two feet away from her_ and completely forgotten that it might be a trap.

 

_Harry_

He stared at the broom, unable to even laugh at the blatant awe and borderline worship on Ginny’s face. There was a Firebolt. In his common room. Addressed to him.

Harry grabbed it decisively and stood up, marching over to the upper years’ seats.

“Pot—oh, excellent, you’ve got a new broom,” Flint said, eyeing the package. Harry hadn’t taken the broom out of the box. He didn’t want to touch it directly. “What model?”

“I think someone’s sent it to me,” Harry said. “I don’t know who, or _why_.”

“Probably because you broke yours,” Hestia said nastily.

Harry was too confused to even engage in some verbal sparring with her. He just kept looking at Flint. “I suspect it’s hexed.”

Flint shook his head. “Potter, you’re paranoid. It’s no secret your broom was shattered, and anyone in Slytherin knows Lord Malfoy hasn’t been able to get a replacement yet.”

“Shows money isn’t _quite_ everything,” Bletchley muttered.

“No, actually, I’m fairly sure I’m not being paranoid, because this is really, really weird,” Harry said, putting the broom box down on the table.

Flint looked at it. Blinked.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Bletchley yelled suddenly.

Ginny drifted over and stood a bit back from Harry, watching.

“That’s a bloody Firebolt,” Flint breathed, then his face went from stunned to suspicious.

Harry nodded. “The _only_ reason I can think of for someone sending me a Firebolt is that they’re hoping I’d get excited, forget it was anonymous, jump on for an immediate joyride, and die. Since I think we all know my dad’s not about to spend more than a couple of knuts on buying me a new broom.”

“And you want our help making sure it’s not about to turn into a murder weapon,” Bletchley said.

Harry shrugged. “I’m thirteen. I know a fair number of diagnostic spells but I’m also not stupid enough to think whoever sent me a Firebolt couldn’t get malicious spellwork on this thing good enough to evade a third year.”

Hestia and Flint shared a glance. “It’s Christmas,” Flint said bluntly. “How about bring this to us in a few hours and we’ll take a look. If we can’t find anything… you may want to run it by Snape before you get on it.”

As unpleasant as that sounded, Harry knew he had a really good point. “Thanks.”

 

The House tables went unused during the holidays, and Harry took advantage of this at the feast to sit with Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Fred, George, and Anthony. Ronald, Jules, and some of the other Gryffindors ended up at the other end of the table, thank Merlin. Harry couldn’t even pay attention to the chaos of confetti, white mice, and loud bangs created periodically by the wizard crackers. He told his friends in a low voice about the Firebolt.

“Are you _sure_ it was anonymous?” Hermione asked.

Harry shot her an annoyed look. “Yes, Hermione, I made very sure to go over all the packaging. With detection and revealing charms, since you were going to ask. Then the Slytherin upper years went over it all again with more spells than I know, and also found nothing.”

She blushed.

“I can’t believe you took it to _Snape_ without even taking it out first,” George muttered.

“How very Gryffindor of you,” Anthony said, grinning. “Harry’s right; this is very strange. What if it’s hexed?”

“It’s nearly impossible to curse a Firebolt,” Fred said.

 _“Nearly_ impossible,” Harry said. “Not ‘completely’. Whoever sent this to me clearly has massive resources at their disposal. Probably enough to figure out how to curse a Firebolt if they were motivated.”

Fred sighed. “You lot are too clever for your own good.”

“It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you,” Hermione said. “I’m glad you did this intelligently, Harry.”

“Me too,” Harry said drily.

Luna blinked at him over her plate of pumpkin pie, Caesar salad, and sushi. Harry decided not to question it. “Tell Professor Snape to check for an infestation of Blibbering Humdingers,” she said very seriously.

“Er. Right, I’ll do that,” he said. “Thanks, Luna.”

“Mhm.” She went back to her food.

Harry paid as much attention to the feast as he could, but a part of his brain stayed down in Snape’s office with his new broom. He really, really hoped there was another explanation to the broom’s origins than “someone’s trying to kill Harry Potter”. Preferably one that would allow him to keep the broom.

 

The day after Christmas, Harry finally put into action a plan he’d been working on for six months, with Theo’s help.

Selling the basilisk parts from the Chamber of Secrets.

There was another passage than the one in the bathrooms, a passage leading from the back end of the Slytherin dorms. It was extremely well concealed and only available via Parseltongue. Harry had avoided using it so far this year, because the trip to the Chamber and back meant he had to be absolutely sure he had no obligations for at least an hour, but over holiday break right after Christmas was the perfect opportunity to slip down there. It would only be made better if he’d been able to make the trip at night, but he couldn’t cast a Patronus yet so the dementors made that impossible.

The Chamber was just as he’d left it. Harry reignited the wizard flame burning high above him. Although the giant basilisk corpse more or less nullified any improvement the lights wrought on the Chamber’s atmosphere.

Harry had spent two weeks over the summer obsessively studying how to extract vital potions ingredients from dead snakes and mastering the Skinning Charm used on animals whose pelts were valuable. (Harry strongly suspected it could be used as a nasty curse in a duel and filed that idea away.) He, Theo, Blaise, and Neville had spent two hours last June layering preservation charms over the basilisk until none of them could even cast anymore. A more complicated spell like those on the potions sections of their trunks would have taken care of it with one casting, but before any of them could cast a spell like that, their magical cores would have to mature, stabilize, and strengthen, so they’d resorted to just piling low-level preservation charms on top of each other and hoping for the best. It looked like they’d been successful. The basilisk looked now just as it had then.

Wand in hand, Harry began carefully stripping preservation charms from it. The task took thirty minutes but, fortunately, not a lot of power—none of them had used spell modifications that would make them hard to undo. It couldn’t be ignored. Leaving the spells up while he worked could cause undesirable reactions with old spells, new spells, and the potent inherent magic of the basilisk’s body and tissues.

Once they were all down, he took a deep breath and set about his tasks.

 

Four gruesome hours later, Harry was finished. He had several jugs of basilisk blood, the jars of venom he’d collected the year before, a _lot_ of basilisk skin bundled up into rolls, a good-sized box of powdered basilisk fang and another of powdered bone, and jars containing its liver, kidneys, heart, stomach fluid, and cerebrospinal fluid. All of which could be sold on the black market for high prices. Harry kept two out of six jars of venom for himself, a bundle of skin, and smaller boxes of powdered fang and bone for his own use. Theo would get one jar, a bundle, and two slightly smaller boxes. He left all of that in the Chamber for now, alongside the butchered corpse, which he would deal with tomorrow. The rest he had to get out on his own.

Harry tossed a blanket over everything he had to move and glared at the pile.

Well. If nothing else, he could practice his wandless magic.

Still glaring, he concentrated on the pile, and felt the immediate strain as everything slowly lifted off the ground, still covered by the blanket.

 _This is ridiculous_.

Harry started the walk back up the tunnel to the Slytherin dorms, which let out at a small door tucked behind Slytherin’s feet and was thankfully a lot shorter than the pipe-and-dramatic-door route from the second floor bathroom. He paused to check the map at the exit. The Carrows, Bletchley, and Flint were all in the Great Hall. Ginny was on the fifth floor with Luna and Demelza, probably dueling while Luna watched, judging by Ginny and Demelza’s positions and small changes in position. Dumbledore was gone, most of the professors were in their offices or in their quarters in the west wing, Pomona Sprout was out in the greenhouses—he’d have to be careful about her—and all the other students were in the first floor common spaces or their common rooms or the library, safe for Fred, George, and Katie Bell out on the Quidditch pitch. Filch was roaming the sixth floor. Harry dearly wished the Map showed ghosts and/or Peeves, but he’d have to deal with it.

 _“Open,”_ he told the dead end of the passage.

Stone dissolved into a gray mist. Harry walked through, his levitated pile of basilisk byproducts trailing along in his wake. The wall reformed behind him with nothing to mark its existence. Out of curiosity, the day he found the passage while exploring the Chamber last year, Harry had cast the strongest secret-revealing spells he knew, and turned up absolutely nothing. Same when he repeated the experiment this fall, only with more power and stronger spells.

Harry kept the Map active and held between his hands, and frequently paused in a corner of the dungeons to check it. He took secret passages and back routes when he could—never mind they took longer; he just needed to stay out of high-traffic areas where ghosts might find him. Despite the fact that he was transporting a large amount of highly restricted arguably Dark potions ingredients obtained from a corpse locked in a room he’d convinced Dumbledore he couldn’t access through the halls so he could pass it off to a merchant in exchange for a _very_ large sum of money, his heartbeat remained steady. Harry wasn’t one for worrying. This was the best plan they’d come up with and it would work, because he had the Map and his wits and his magic.

Instead of exiting the dungeons near the entrance hall, the one Slytherins mostly used, he took a lesser-known offshoot that let out in one of Filch’s many stashes of cleaning supplies. The storage room was cramped but clean and connected to one of the first floor back halls, where four unused empty rooms sat dusty and still and a single service door to the grounds had been mostly forgotten. Harry disabled its locking enchantments with a few slashes of his wand and muttered enchantments—it was designed for students and staff with permission, which meant that being a student and recognized by Hogwarts’ wards made the spells easier to take down—and slipped out into the grounds.

This was the dangerous part. The odds of anyone looking out the window and seeing him walking away from the castle were low but still definitely a problem. Harry kept to tiny patches of trees and hurried, winter cloak tugged tight. He periodically flicked his wand and whispered whispered _ventus_ wind charms to erase his footprints as he went.

At the edge of the grounds, he paused.

He’d done his homework. Supposedly, there were wards along the edges of the property belonging to Hogwarts. The forest surrounded Hogwarts on three sides and extended for dozens of miles in every direction. However, on the side facing Hogsmeade, the land magically and legally considered part of the castle grounds ended much nearer the castle. There was a low stone wall separating the castle from the Hogsmeade public property, but the wall wasn’t the real obstacle, mainly a way to warn people where the wards sat. Fortunately for Harry, the wards were only concerned with things coming in, not with things going out.

“Potter?” a quiet voice said.

“Yes.” Harry let the pile of illegal potions ingredients settle onto the ground behind him.

Two figures appeared out of nowhere on the other side of the wall. “Fifteen minutes to sundown,” the wizard said tersely. He was aggressively normal-looking save for the jagged scar slicing horizontally across his forehead, tugging both eyebrows into a permanently surprised expression. “Let’s get this over with before the dementors show up.”

Harry squinted around. The dementors weren’t allowed on Hogwarts main grounds at all after the Quidditch incident, and as they didn’t patrol Hogsmeade until sundown, this land that was a direct boundary between Hogwarts’ inner lawn and the Hogsmeade property was safe. He didn’t like cutting it this close and neither did his contacts but it was their best shot at avoiding discovery; everyone in Hogsmeade would be hiding.

“Password?” a gruff voice said.

Harry bowed to the goblin. Ever since first year, he’d made a point of behaving respectfully whenever he visited Gringotts or had occasion to communicate with them. “Well met, Stonemace. The agreed-upon passphrase is _llamas in Paris._ ”

“Well met, Heir Potter,” Stonemace said, sneering. Harry had spoken with him several times in the last few years when asking questions about the Potter accounts and his trust vault and the banking laws. Sneering was as close as the goblin ever came to a smile. Much like a number of Slytherins Harry could name. If goblins came to Hogwarts, he was fairly certain almost every one of them would end up wearing silver and green. “The response phrase is “would be a very strange sight indeed.””

Harry nodded. He and Theo had set up the passphrases to be as random as possible and also operate as an identity check when neither party knew the other well nor could cross the property lines to perform a magical truth-of-identity check. “Are the terms still agreeable?”

“They are indeed,” the wizard said, eyeing the blanket-covered pile. “As long as my _friend_ here verifies the quality of the materials.”

Stonemace grinned. Harry and Theo had contacted the goblins because they were strictly neutral in any and all wizard conflicts. Given a ten percent cut of the profits as their fee, Gringotts would negotiate the agreement and create a binding magical contract ensuring Harry and Theo would actually get paid by the potions smuggler Theo’s family knew. Selling a large quantity of highly restricted basilisk byproducts on the legal market in the United Kingdom would be extremely suspect. Selling the same large quantity overseas, where such things were a lot less regulated, would bring the same price or higher and not end up with awkward questions. The goblins’ involvement meant no one would ever be able to trace it back to Harry, since the contract involved keeping the smuggler from ever revealing the names or descriptions of anyone involved in the transactions. Not that the smuggler knew about Gringotts’ cut. Theo had suggested telling him Gringotts was getting a one-time fee to intermediate. Harry had smirked and agreed instantly, because that meant Stonemace would probably charge the smuggler as much as he possibly could, especially if the smuggler was rude. Which he definitely seemed to be. Judging by Stonemace’s expression, Harry thought their plan was working perfectly.

“I’m sure the verification process will go smoothly,” Harry said. “Stonemace, if you would?”

“Of course.” Stonemace pulled out a folio and snapped his fingers. The papers inside duplicated twice, one pile going to Harry and the other floating over to the smuggler. “If you’ll review the contract, I can begin the verification process.”

Harry concentrated. The jars of venom floated over the wall and landed at Stonemace’s feet just as Harry snatched the papers out of the air. He added the powdered fang and bone to the pile before settling down to read the documents with a _lumos_ , figuring Stonemace would be occupied with what he’d already sent over for now.

The contract appeared to be in order. Harry cross-checked the vault numbers with what Theo had written him after his meeting with Stonemace a week ago. There were three new vaults created to hold varying amounts of the transaction—Harry was getting three fourths, Theo an eighth, and the last eighth to Ginny. Probably Megan Jorkins deserved the last bit of money more than Ginny did, and Jules deserved the bulk of it more than Harry, but as none of the Slytherins liked either Jules or Megan much—not to mention, Megan hadn’t even come back to school this year—Harry and Theo were not overly concerned by this.

Harry’s contract included a footnote that included the arrangement between him and Gringotts, signed separately, binding both parties to secrecy as regards the deception about the fee Harry was paying Gringotts.

The last paragraph regarded the actual price negotiations—Harry agreed to abdicate any say in the final price and leave the negotiations on his behalf to the Gringotts representative; likewise, the smuggler agreed to haggle “within reason” regarding the price and respect the Gringotts’ representative’s price as a fair evaluation of value, and the Gringotts representative agreed to judge the value of the goods to the best of their market knowledge. Harry smirked when he saw that line; it gave Stonemace _just_ enough leeway to name the highest price possible on the current market.

“This looks good,” Harry said, pulling out a disguised gel pen and signing the contract with a flourish.

The smuggler shrugged and went along with it.

Stonemace smiled again. “Excellent.” He signed his own copy and snapped again; duplicates of Harry’s and the smuggler’s contracts floated back over to him. “For our records,” he explained. “Mr. Potter, if you could send over the rest?”

Harry floated the skin and jars of organs and bodily fluids over to the goblin. He and the smuggler waited in terse silence while Stonemace went over them all.

“Incredible,” Stonemace breathed when he finished. Harry checked his watch: four minutes left. “These ingredients are… pristine. Mr. Potter, have you any idea as to the age of the basilisk?”

“Centuries,” Harry said.

Stonemace shook his head. “At the very _least_. I would guess seven hundred years or more since it hatched.” _Try a thousand._ “The heart and organs of a basilisk of this age are so rare as to be nearly unheard of. And its venom is the most potent I have ever seen, as it has had centuries to concentrate and mature.”

“What’s the value?” the smuggler snapped. “We’re short on time here.” He shook his head and muttered _“goblins”_ under his breath.

Stonemace glared.

_Perfect._

“Six hundred thousand,” Stonemace said in clipped tones.

Harry struggled not to let his jaw drop. It was _double_ what he and Theo had predicted they’d get, and nearly as much as the contents of his trust vault, which Harry could live off of for the rest of his life and stay in comfort if not luxury.

The smuggler was outraged. “Six hundred thousand! It’s not worth _half_ that!”

“If you weren’t a blithering fool, you’d see for yourself it’s probably worth _more_ ,” Stonemace sneered. “The market’s never seen an influx of goods like this one. When you sell this lot you can charge through the nose to various potions masters and make enough to recoup the loss by four hundred thousand at least. Be lucky I didn’t estimate it higher.”

“So you won’t negotiate?” the smuggler said, looking at his pocket watch and then around again, nervously. Harry hid a smirk. This was the other reason he and Theo had chosen a close-to-nightfall time frame, apparently at Theo’s father’s suggestion. The smuggler would have less time to negotiate and be terrified of the approaching dementors.

Harry had just hoped he didn’t get too terrified and bolt. Now that they’d signed the contracts, however, it was the smuggler’s fault if he left the goods there and fled. Harry had gotten them outside the wards. They weren’t his problem anymore. The smuggler would still had to pay. And if there was one contract you didn’t want to break, it was one officiated by Gringotts.

 _“Fine,”_ the smuggler snarled. “Fine, I accept—”

A flash of magic bound this agreement to the contracts. Stonemace’s smile was vicious. “Good day.”

“Bastards,” the smuggler muttered, and waved his wand at the pile of basilisk byproducts. They swooped off the ground and into a bag he held out, mouth open and presumably spelled with an Undetectable Expansion Charm. He vanished without another word.

Harry raised an eye at Stonemace. “I’m afraid I’m not the best at mental math of this caliber, sir. Would you mind telling me how much is in each vault?”

“Not in the slightest,” Stonemace said. “Four hundred five thousand galleons will be transferred to vault seven ninety-two, under Hadrian Remus Potter’s name and independent of any and all magical guardians under clause sixteen point two of the laws regarding children from wizarding lines, which states that any pure- or halfblood family of Noble or Ancient and Noble status can place money earned on their own into an account that is entirely confidential and separate from the knowledge, oversight, or control of parents, magical guardians, and Head of House. Sixty-seven thousand five hundred each will be transferred to vaults seven ninety-three and four, respectively under the names of Theodore Frederick Burgess Nott and Hadrian Remus Potter, and will be kept confidential by the same laws.”

“Excellent,” Harry said. “If you could forward all the relevant paperwork to me for vaults seven ninety-two and four? I’d prefer the use of a ten galleon disguise fee on the papers.”

Stonemace nodded. Theo had told Harry that he was the goblin assigned to many of Gringotts’ more… particular clients. He was probably used to a lot weirder security measures than the standard disguise-my-bank-papers-to-any-eyes-but-mine enchantments. “Pleasure doing business with you, Heir Potter.”

“You as well, sir. May your fortunes flow,” Harry said, invoking a somewhat traditional but commonly used goblin farewell phrase.

Stonemace looked taken aback at Harry’s knowledge of goblin culture and bowed slightly in return. “And may your failures turn to success.”

The goblin snapped his fingers, manifesting what looked like an enchanted flying armchair encased in a delicately beautiful glass bubble, stepped through the glass, sat in the armchair, and zipped away. Harry grinned as he watched him go. The plan had worked without a hitch. He would sit down with Ginny and explain to her that the account would be transferred to her on a two-thousand-galleon yearly withdrawal limit until she turned fifteen, that she had to be _extremely_ subtle about any and all purchases made so she didn’t make anyone suspicious, and that she should go have a meeting with the goblins when she turned fifteen, with Harry or one of the twins there as an older financial advisor, to talk about investments. It wasn’t enough to set her up for a life of average middle-class comfort but it was a sizeable nest egg and would keep her very comfortable while she was getting her feet under her and finding a job. Especially if she made smart investments. And if Harry was right about her—if he’d read it right that the ambition behind Ginny’s eyes burned as bright as Evalyn or Theo or Daphne or himself or Miles Bletchley or the Carrow twins—then Ginny would one day make sixty-seven thousand galleons look small.

Meanwhile, he had plans to make regarding his own portion. Plans that involved research, thoughts of the future, goblins, and possibly a lawyer.

Well… on the other had… why even make plans? It wasn’t like he’d be going anywhere anyway… it wasn’t like he _really_ thought he had any real talent or potential… he was just the cast-off Potter, the forgotten one, the one with no true friends… useless…

Harry kicked into his Occlumency exercises out of reflex, shoving his emotions aside and reaching for a calm, meditative state. A state of mind in which everything was clear and cool and rational. He was only partially successful. Despair still howled and tore at the edges of the calm. It wouldn’t last. But he was able to get his breathing under control, lift his head, draw his wand, realize he’d lingered too long and this was a dementor approaching.

 _Happy memory_ , Harry thought, since framing was a crutch for students and he was in no way ready to cast a Patronus without it on his _own_ , much less in front of a dementor that was drifting ever closer, _happy memory_ , but—

Winning Quidditch. Learning he was a wizard. Reading in the library. Mastering his first spell. Laughing with his friends. Harry _knew_ he’d done all those things, but he couldn’t… couldn’t picture any of them…

All he could remember clearly was anger. Bitterness. Resentment at those who had hurt him again and again and again. Negative emotions, but powerful. They replaced dementor-cold in his limbs with the equally cold but familiar feel of his anger. They reminded him why he hated anything that modified his mood or mindset or emotions. Anything that messed with him again. Reminded him that he _wanted the dementor gone._

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!” Harry shouted, slashing his wand through the movement and aiming it at the dementor.

The thing reared back as a silvery cloud appeared at the end of Harry’s wand. More a shield than anything else, stationary, but it was _there_ , it was holding the creature off—

Panting, Harry retreated up towards the castle, step by step. The dementor followed for a few minutes, but eventually it reached the limit it dared approach the castle and backed off.

Harry walked backwards the remainder of the way, wand at the ready, thoughts spinning as he reordered his mind. Thank Merlin he’d had the sense to learn Occlumency. He was still an amateur, but he had some rudimentary shields and he knew his mind well after dozens of hours meditating. Once the dementor was gone, Harry could clearly feel the edges of its false despair versus his actual emotions, feel where it had augmented his negative feelings and suppressed the happy, and peel away its alterations. It was slower than chocolate but more satisfying and, if his guess was right, more effective at beating back the dementor’s influence.

Maybe one day he’d be a good enough Occlumens to detect the differences even under dementor influence. Harry wondered, as he slipped back in the service door and pulled out the Map and cast a _lumos_ , if that would mean he wouldn’t be affected by dementors. If so, what did they do when they had to throw master Occlumens in Azkaban? Maybe have a powerful Legilimens go in and shatter their shields? Maybe a potion or a spell of some kind—or an anti-Occlumency coating or spell on the cell interior itself instead of the prisoner?

The Map showed everyone still well out of his way. Useful, seeing as all his snakes were hibernating or lethargic to the point of uselessness thanks to the pervasive winter chill. Harry set off for the dungeons, still thinking. The mind magics were _frowned upon_ as potentially Dark skills by the Ministry, much like Parseltongue, although not to the same degree. Legilimency was considered worse than Occlumency because it was offensive, rather than defensive. (Clearly no one in the Ministry had ever heard the phrase “the best defense is a strong offense,” one Bletchley had taught the dueling club a few months ago that proved exceedingly accurate as far as Harry could tell.) It stood to reason that most people who pursued and learned the mind magics would be the sort who were disinclined to follow rules anyway, and therefore might end up in Azkaban. The Ministry _had_ to have some way of dealing with them… that, or Azkaban wasn’t nearly as bad as it pretended to be. Or perhaps the sheer number of dementors just overwhelmed all but the very strongest Occlumency shields. Harry would have to look into that, but carefully, because he’d managed to stay off Dumbledore’s radar for the most part and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by getting caught studying questionable things. He was already concealing his actual skill level in Potions, Transfiguration practicals, and Arithmancy, and he believed he’d be at a point where he’d have to do the same thing in Runes by the end of the school year. The end of fourth year at the absolute latest. Harry would blow them out of the water on OWLs and NEWTs but until then he wanted to keep a low profile.

He crept into his bed, pulled out the one journal he owned that was keyed to his blood and magic, and wrote down all his thoughts and observations from today. He’d started the journal after reading _Esoteric Incantations_ for all his notes and research and thoughts and questions regarding things he wasn’t supposed to be studying or projects he wanted to keep secret, like the still-unfinished invisibility runespell for Eriss. It helped greatly to order his thoughts and he’d noticed his Occlumency exercises were easier and more successful since.

Harry did Occlumency for a bit then drafted letters in his head to Theo, Blaise, and Hermione in his head… he’d have to tell Theo and Blaise that their theory on framing was correct, and send Hermione a copy of _Esoteric Incantations_ plus a letter explaining their theory, the relevant pages, and Harry’s recent use of a non-framing-crutch Patronus…

The last thing he remembered before he fell asleep was a sort of bitter sadness that he apparently had no memory happy enough to overpower dementor despair and help him create a Patronus. He’d suspected as much, of course… but it was still hard to learn for sure…


	8. On and Off the Quidditch Pitch

The end of winter break saw Harry exhausted from hours spent in the Chamber. He’d transfigured what was left of the basilisk corpse into air, slept on a cushioning charm for three hours, then explored its every inch. He found three other tunnels: one connected to a passage the Map showed as the one that went to Honeydukes; the other let out near the Great Hall; the last in a corridor he had already pegged as probably the one with the kitchens attached, even if he hadn’t yet figured out how to get inside. Interestingly, the Map didn’t show the Chamber and its attached passages, even after Harry explored them, or the kitchen, which Fred and George knew the location of but wouldn’t share. Seems some places had more powerful Unplottable spells on them than even the Marauders had been able to override. Which made sense, seeing as they may have been brilliant but were still only teenagers.

By far the most interesting thing in the Chamber was the library. Harry couldn’t even open most of the books, since they were warded as tightly as a Gringotts vault and way beyond the capacity of a single student to access, but those he could open looked fascinating. Unfortunately, aside from a few written in Parseltongue that he immediately took back to his room and added to the private library for later study, they were all in Old Norse, Old English, Ancient Greek, Latin, or other ancient languages. Harry knew rudimentary Greek and Latin and had a _very_ basic awareness of Old Norse and Old English, but mostly Runes focused on the characters and runes tied to the languages, not the grammar, syntax, or vocabulary. It wasn’t a language class. Harry sighed and put the books back and resolved to allocate History of Magic classes to language study instead of political study. He had years to go before he was a political player, anyway—he’d have to wait for James to die or abdicate Wizengamot rights to his Heir, neither of which was likely to happen soon—and he thought the languages were more important. He also decided to go talk to Professor Babbling. Surely she was fluent in the languages whose rune systems she taught—if he pulled the _fascinated student_ card plus innocent face, he might convince her that he really thought he’d work better with runes if he understood the languages, and anyway loads of old runemagic texts hadn’t been translated to modern English and hated translation charms, and it would be ever so helpful if he could learn the languages too… yeah, he’d have a good shot.

He did learn a few things about what it meant to be Slytherin’s Heir in the castle.

First, until another descendant came to school, discovered the Chamber, understood their heritage, and accepted and embraced said lineage, he would control the Chamber and the snakes of Hogwarts, since ancient magic tied any snake living in the castle and benefiting from Hogwarts’ inherent magic to the Heir.

Second, he could key the blood of anyone he wanted to the passages, so they’d open even without Parseltongue to specific people.

Third, the castle would be “fond” of him. This was all written in Parseltongue and Harry wasn’t sure what, if anything, had gotten lost in translation—so he couldn’t quite figure out what _fond_ meant. Maybe the staircases would help him get to class on time instead of getting in the way. That’d be great.

He supposed someday they could use the Chamber for dueling practice or for working _really_ nasty spells or unstable brews—things no one wanted in the castle. It was definitely more secure than the Knights Room. For now, Harry decided it wasn’t practical to come down here often. Took too much time and they weren’t doing anything that needed the extra security.

Although it certainly didn’t hurt to have access to such a place in the meantime. And the books on Parselmagic and the history of Parseltongues were extremely fascinating.

 

“Ginny.”

Ginny looked up from her textbook. “Oh—hey, Harry.”

He slid into a seat opposite her in the library. “What’re you working on?”

“Potions.” She made a face. “Snape’s been after me again.”

“Keep your temper,” Harry advised. “He doesn’t like Weasleys much. After Ronald’s behavior in his class, I can’t blame him. Work ahead in the class so you can anticipate errors and answer the theory questions he throws at you. I managed to go from being a target to sitting in his blind spot during first year. You can probably do the same.”

“Thanks,” Ginny said, setting down her quill slowly. “But you didn’t come here to talk about Snape… did you?”

“Observant,” Harry said. “No. No, I didn’t.”

He drew his wand and cast two of the most powerful anti-eavesdropping and anti-attention spells he knew.

Ginny’s eyes widened. “Those spells aren’t legal. I remember Dad talking about them…”

“Are you going to tattle?” Harry said, smirking.

“What? No! I want to _learn_ them!”

 _Well then, look at you, turning into quite the Slytherin._ “Tut tut, what would dear old Mummy think?” he said.

“To hell with what she thinks,” Ginny muttered. “If I can keep Ron from eavesdropping when I have friends over, it’ll be worth it.”

“I’ll teach you if you promise not to hex me for the next five minutes.”

Ginny was instantly on her guard. “Why do you think I’m going to hex you?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Because I’ve something to tell you that I don’t think you’ll like.”

“Tell me.”

“Not until you promise not to hex me for five minutes.”

She scowled. “Fine. Prat. I won’t hex you for five minutes. Look, I’ll even put my wand on the table pointing towards me—happy?”

“I’ll take it,” Harry said, and proceeded to explain the bare minimum of his holiday transaction: he’d sold basilisk parts for a significant sum on the black market, and a cut of the profit was going to her.

Ginny was gaping like a fish when he was done. “What—why—why _me?”_

“Because you got caught in the crossfire,” Harry said. “Thought it was only fair. And no, Megan Jorkins and Jules won’t see a knut. I’m the one that got back into the Chamber and did the work.”

“So why would I hex you?” she exclaimed. “This is—I can’t think of what to say—”

“Because of the next bit,” Harry said. “Currently, the account will be transferred to you only if you agree to a two-thousand-galleon yearly withdrawal limit until you turn fifteen and pass your OWLs.”

Her scowl returned, full force, but she didn’t seem to know what to say.

“You’re probably grappling with irritation that I’m controlling your access even though I’m only a year older than you and have no authority over you but also I’m giving you a huge gift and you don’t want to seem ungrateful or make me mad enough to take it back,” Harry guessed.

She nodded stiffly.

“First of all, I wouldn’t take it back. This is a fair and square offer. It’ll be transferred to you at fifteen after your OWLs in full anyway. The stipulation now is just whether you get to access up to two thousand galleons of it a year until then. Second of all, I’m the one who’s giving you the money and I can do it under what conditions I choose, but the justification is that you are twelve and I’m an older student of your House. It’s my responsibility to some extent to look after younger Slytherins. I have to make sure you’re smart about it if I give you the money. Your parents can’t access the account, affect your access, or even learn about it from anyone at Gringotts. But you’ll have to be very careful about the money so no one wonders where you’re getting it from.” He paused. “I’d recommend buying one of the better trunks on Diagon Alley; they’re dead useful, and you can pay them extra to make it look like your old trunk on the outside. Probably even configure one of the compartments to look like the inside of your old trunk so you can keep anyone you don’t trust from seeing what else is in there. Point is, you have to be Slytherin about this. Oh, and I’d recommend sitting down with a financial advisor and the goblins after you turn fifteen to talk about investments. I can do it for you by proxy this summer if you like but I doubt you could get away from home to do it yourself.”

Ginny was back to gaping.

Harry let her sit in silence and process this.

Finally, she snatched her wand back up. He reached for his, but she tucked hers away. “I’m not going to hex you. I mean, I want to. But you wipe the floor with me in dueling so it’s not worth it.” Ginny scowled. “I… don’t like it. But I get why you did it this way.”

“So you agree?” Harry said.

“Yes.”

He pulled a scroll out of his purse. “Excellent, sign this and the transfer will be completed.”

Ginny unrolled the scroll and grabbed her quill, heading to sign it.

“Wait,” Harry said, smirking. “What does the scroll say?”

“It says…” Ginny trailed off as her eyes fell on the first line. Shock was quickly chased off her face by horror and then anger. “You tricked me!”

Harry couldn’t help it; he sniggered. “Trust me, I was tempted to let you sign that one. Watching you dance the hula on the table while singing the school song in the middle of breakfast would’ve been bloody hilarious… but I’m not cruel.” _To people I like._

“Why would you do this!” Ginny yelled. Harry was very glad he’d thought to put up privacy wards. She definitely had the Weasley temper, even if her Slytherin lessons were teaching her to control it.

“To teach you a lesson,” he said flatly, merriment slipping away into a dead serious, icy stare. Ginny deflated a bit, watching him warily. “You _never_ sign a magically binding contract unless you know exactly what it says, even if you trust whoever gave it to you. The only side effect of that one would’ve been public humiliation. I could have bound you to me in a fealty oath akin to slavery, or had you sign an agreement that you owed me one million galleons for the life debt of me saving you from the basilisk. Never mind Jules killed it, never mind we’re minors—laws about contracts are useless when the magical kind comes up. This is old magic, and it doesn’t follow the Ministry’s restrictions. Anyone with magic can sign one and be bound for the rest of their life or until both parties agree to nullify the contract.”

She was white as a sheet, freckles standing out stark, by the time he was done. Still glaring. “I get it,” she said. “Read the magical contracts.”

“Mhm.” Harry pulled the real contract out of his bag and passed it over. “Including the fine print at the bottom. It says exactly what I told you, but you should never take someone at their word for that. Not everyone’s intentions are as benign as a thirteen-year-old housemate.”

“You, benign?” Ginny snapped.

Harry let his sharp Slytherin smile creep across his face. “Trust me, I see the irony.”

She shook her head and read the contract carefully and signed when she was done. The scroll flashed. A copy appeared in front of Harry; another, he knew, would arrive on Stonemace’s desk.

“Congratulations, Miss Weasley,” Harry said with a wicked grin, and stood up, wand already out to take down the privacy spells and leave.

“Harry.”

He paused. “Yes?”

Ginny hesitated. “Ron said you couldn’t get back down to the Chamber last year because you aren’t descended from Slytherin—that you’re a Parselmouth because of Dark magic side effects from when the Dark Lord vanished. But… if you sold the basilisk parts… you must’ve lied to Dumbledore.”

“Interesting theory.” He wasn’t going to confirm either way, but he was pleased she’d made the connection.

“I…” Ginny took a deep breath. “Was all that Heir stuff… true?”

Harry let the damper on his eyes slip and grinned at her. “What do you think?” he said, and then slashed his wards away and left.

 

Things soon settled back down to normal. Neville told everyone he’d started working on his gran regarding the wand thing and was cautiously hopeful. Harry checked in with Snape and received a cool reply that he was working on the Firebolt and should be finished determining its safety by the end of January. Harry did his best to put it out of his mind and focus on schoolwork. Professor Babbling readily agreed to teach Harry—and Theo, who wanted to join in the second Harry told him why he was asking for extra sessions—the old languages as well as rune systems. He lost another four hours out of every week to the language studies and took it out of his sleep. Dueling club continued to be one of the highlights of his week; everyone was steadily improving and the first and second years they’d brought on to help them deal with bullies reported that after a few response hexes they’d been more or less left alone. Harry grinned and started teaching them the slightly more advanced Bat-Bogey Hex.

His Patronus remained formless, but he could hold it longer now, and the silver glow was brighter. Harry kept at it, especially after he heard from Neville that Jules had had his first official training session with Lupin and had some success. Of course. Jules had led a charmed life. Jules would have a happy memory to use.

Harry would just make a go of it on his own.

 

The Knights Room had gotten progressively colder as the year progressed, and they had all consequently gotten quite good at fire and heating charms. Harry walked in one morning in late January and found four woodless wizard fires burning around the circle of chairs and tables that took up the middle of the room. Neville and Theo were there already, working on an essay for Sprout; Hermione and Blaise and Pansy were bickering over a cauldron in the slowly growing potions laboratory that sat at one end of the room; the twins were doing something that involved soot stains on their faces at the other; Justin and Daphne were reading quietly. Harry collapsed into a seat next to Daphne and pulled out a notebook and the book Babbling recommended him and Theo for learning Anglo-Saxon. They’d each bought a copy new three weeks ago and the first half of Harry’s was already heavily annotated. He opened his notebook and started working on a practice translation exercise from the book.

“That should do it,” Theo said as he finished his essay, rolling the parchment with a flourish. “If we don’t get full marks on this I’ll eat my quill.”

“You think?” Neville said doubtfully.

Theo stared at him. “Neville, we almost _always_ get full marks on our Herbology work.”

“I know, but…”

Theo kicked him lightly in the shin. “No buts. Have confidence. You beat everyone in Herbology the last three years. Including Hermione.”

They both looked over at where she was furiously stirring her cauldron. She’d been working on her hair lately after grudgingly admitting that learning hair charms from Pansy and Daphne made it a lot easier and less time-consuming, but the cauldron steam had turned it back into its natural state of crackling bushy chaos.

“Thank Merlin we talked her out of signing up for every class,” Daphne muttered. “She’d be unbearable with nerves by now.”

Justin set aside his textbook. “She’d have had to drop some. Arithmancy and Divination have the same time slot. Same with Runes and Care.”

Daphne hesitated. “There are… ways around that.”

“What, extra tutoring?” Harry said, thinking of his lessons with Babbling.

“No—Time Turners. The Ministry has been known to _very_ occasionally loan one to a dedicated student in the interest of helping them get ahead in school.”

Harry’s eyes widened as he processed the implications of that. “They give the power of _time travel_ to _students?”_

“You mean they’d have given me one if I’d actually signed up for everything like I wanted?” Hermione said. None of them had noticed her leave off her Potions work and come close enough to eavesdrop.

“Bugger,” Justin muttered.

Daphne rolled her eyes at Hermione’s speculative tone. “Yes, probably, given how you’re careful to be McGonagall’s pet and she’d almost definitely write you the requisite letters.”

Hermione propped her hands on her hips. “Then why’d you talk me out of it?” she demanded.

“You’re already taking Arithmancy, Runes, and Muggle Studies for a reason none of us can determine given that you _are_ Muggle-born,” Blaise said indifferently, stepping around her and sitting down on an empty couch. “Imagine if you were taking Care and Divination on top of that—keeping track of all your work, creeping about to make sure your multiple selves never get seen, showing up on time to classes, having to go back in time to _nap_ —”

“Point taken,” Hermione said grouchily, sitting next to him. “It would be difficult.”

“Try impossible,” Theo said acidly. He’d put aside his Herbology textbook (why he even used it Harry had no idea; Theo and Neville both loved Herbology and were far enough ahead that they didn’t need the books) and pulled out the Defense one. “My cousin told me about an older Ravenclaw that did it a few years back. She made it through third and fourth year before having a nervous breakdown and being forced by the mind healers at St. Mungo’s to take a year off.”

Hermione winced. “In that case… thank you for convincing me to take only the more useful classes.”

Theo sat straight up and stared at her in exaggerated shock. “Did you… did Hermione Granger just admit to having been _wrong?_ ”

“We must engrave this occasion in stone for posterity,” Harry said seriously.

Hermione glared at both of them. “I admit when I’m wrong!”

“Really?” Pansy said, taking a seat next to Harry. “Like the time when Harry told us to use a silver knife instead of steel for the bubotubers in Potions, and you told him the book said steel and stuck with that, and all of our potions came out better? Or in Charms when we talked about _carpe retractum_ and you were convinced it didn’t work on objects of larger mass than the caster until Theo did it on Goyle? Or—”

“Fine,” Hermione snapped. She—was she blinking back _tears?_ “Fine!”

There was a moment of silence. 

“There’s no shame being wrong from time to time,” Neville said cautiously. “Hermione…”

“Yes,” she hissed, “there _is.”_

“We’re all wrong, all the time,” Daphne said.

Hermione twisted her hands together. “And you lot are purebloods! You don’t have to prove yourself over and over to everyone in this castle—”

“We don’t have to prove ourselves?” Harry said, suddenly irritated. He could understand Hermione’s viewpoint, he _could_ , but it wasn’t like the rest of them just got a free pass. “How about me, first year, having to brew the best potions in the class just to keep Snape from picking on me? How about how half the school sees Slytherin ties and thinks “evil”? Do you _really_ think we’ve got nothing to prove?”

Hermione deflated a little. “I suppose not—but—you don’t understand.”

“She has a point,” Justin said. His expression was unusually grim. “Even in Hufflepuff—well. Supposedly we’re the _tolerant_ house.”

“Hermione, you’re already better than all the Gryffindors your year,” Theo said. “You’ve topped our year in overall grades twice in a row now. I’d lay odds on you against almost any third or fourth year outside dueling club in a duel. You’re _already_ better than them.”

“But I can’t slip,” she said. She still looked tense. On the verge of a breakdown. Now that Harry thought about it, she’d been on edge ever since they came back to school.

Blaise must have come to the same conclusion. “Did your parents say something to you?” he said quietly.

Hermione looked down.

“You can talk about it,” Neville said. “If you need to.”

It was nothing the Slytherins would’ve said, but when Hermione looked around at their group, Harry knew she could tell Neville was right. They’d listen. And be willing to hex anyone who hurt her into pieces if she wouldn’t or couldn’t do it on her own.

He saw the moment she gave in. Her shoulders slumped and her fierce expression crumpled, although no tears fell. “I can’t—my old school, my parents—everyone always expected me to be the _best_ , even as my classmates all hated me for it… I could _never_ be wrong. Whenever I was, everyone—made such a _fuss_ out of it. Joked about how I was slipping, losing my edge, maybe I wasn’t such a prodigy after all—my teachers would try to comfort me but I _knew_ they were disappointed deep down—and my parents didn’t even _try_ to hide it, nothing less than a hundred percent on everything was good enough…”

“Break?” Neville said softly. Harry imagined he knew all about high family expectations.

Strike that. All of them did, to some extent. Harry looked around and realized he was the only student here who _didn’t_ have a family pushing him.

Hermione closed her eyes. “Dad was asking me all these obscure history and biology questions, and he was decidedly unhappy that I didn’t know any of them. It doesn’t help that I can’t show them what I _am_ learning. I’m worried… I’m worried they might not let me come back if I don’t get a “proper education”.” She put Slytherin-worthy sneering emphasis on the last two words, which in itself worried Harry more than anything else she’d said.

“As if Muggle subjects would be any more useful than what we learn here,” Blaise said. “Do they even realize what a privilege—”

“No,” Hermione said. “They don’t. And I can’t show them any magic, I can’t even show them my textbooks.”

Harry sat up straighter as an idea occurred to him. “So buy Muggle books.”

Everyone stared at him.

“Muggle textbooks,” he insisted. “Study them over the summer. Start a year or two ahead of where you’d be in Muggle public schools, learn enough to bullshit your way through your parents’ questions. If it still looks like you’re getting a decent _Muggle_ education…”

Justin was nodding along. “I can get you my brother’s old books. Mum and Dad made him keep all of them for me, but—well, I won’t be needing them now.”

Hermione frowned. “I suppose…”

“That is, if you can bring yourself to only partially study something,” Pansy said, smirking.

“Of course I can,” Hermione snapped.

“Excellent,” Blaise said. “We can help you dupe your parents and you’ll get to stay on at Hogwarts.”

Hermione bit her lip.

“Think of it as managing their expectations so you can study what you really want to,” Daphne said. “If the prospect of duping your parents offends your moral code.”

Hermione huffed, but the fight seemed to have gone out of her.

Blaise then surprised all of them by leaning over and hugging Hermione. She stiffened in surprise and then hugged him back with surprising willingness. Harry cocked his head and watched them clinically. He could analyze the places people’s arms went when they hugged all he liked, but somehow he never understood why it was so comforting to them. Or how his peers just… initiated physical contact that easily. Hugs always felt like being pinned down, to Harry. Trapped. He hated it.

Hermione let go. If she was wiping at her eyes, no one mentioned it.

They returned to their classwork without much more conversation. Harry finished his Runes homework—he’d actually been right about learning the languages making the runemagic easier, even if learning both at the same time was wicked hard—and pulled out the papers for his invisibility runespell. Eriss was sleeping almost all the time now and rarely left his trunk, so she didn’t need it at the moment, but Harry definitely would this summer. He and James had written each other a few times over break and the final letter had arrived that morning: Harry would be going to Potter Manor for the summer, supposedly after returning to the Dursleys for a few weeks, which Harry was going to refuse but hadn’t told his father or Dumbledore yet. He was looking forward to maybe patching things over with Jules to the point that they could maybe be brothers on mutually acceptable terms, even if Harry very much doubted he could ever harbor anything but intense dislike for his father. No matter what happened, he’d have to keep Eriss well and truly hidden.

The problem would be what to do with himself for those first few weeks. Harry’s current plan involved going to the Dursleys so anyone who was watching at the station would see him leave with them, and then having Theo and his father come by and get him so he could wait it out at Nott Manor until it was time to go to the Potters. The other option was to go with Justin and disappear into the Muggle world for a while, but Harry had weighed the options and decided the Notts’ reputation came out ahead of not being able to do magic at home for a few weeks.

Fred and George finally finished their project in the corner and rejoined the group, identical shit-eating smirks on their faces. Pansy and Daphne made them use cleaning charms to get the soot off their faces and robes before they could sit down. 

“Has anyone done the Defense essay yet?” Neville said after a bit. “That bit about vampire social orders was really complex…”

“As complex as Slytherin social orders?” Justin said.

Blaise sniffed. “I doubt it.”

“I’ve done it,” Harry said, pulling his essay out of his bag and tossing the scroll to Neville. “Maybe he’ll give you some actual House points for the explanation.”

“Since we all know he never will Slytherin,” Theo muttered.

Hermione looked between them. “Is he that bad on you?”

“He’s not as bad on us as Snape is on you lot,” Blaise said. “But definitely worse than any of the others. We’ve earned… how many points from him?”

“Ten,” Harry said, feeling his expression darken and not caring. He was with friends; he didn’t have to disguise his expression. “I keep track. _Ten_ points.”

“Each?” Fred said.

Harry laughed bitterly. “No, ten _total._ ”

“That’s ridiculous,” George said.

“We know,” Daphne said.

Harry turned a page of his runes reference book, battling anger. “The man’s so far in Dumbledore’s pocket he probably wouldn’t give Slytherin more than five points for taking down the second coming of Grindelwald.”

“It’s not fair,” Justin said, looking indignant.

“Snape comes after Gryffindor worse than anything Lupin’s done,” Hermione said.

“And all the other teachers are half as likely to award Slytherin points as they are the other Houses,” Theo countered. “Including Dumbldore. Or have you forgotten that appalling display at the end of first year?”

“We fought off _You-Know-Who_ ,” Hermione said.

This elicited no surprise, as the others had long since gained the sort of trust that meant they could learn the truth about the end-of-first-year disaster. Only indignation. “That was staged,” Theo said angrily. “The gauntlet of ‘traps’? Please. More a gauntlet of _tests_.”

“What d’you mean, staged?” Hermione said, crossing her arms. “The whole thing was a trap for You-Know-Who—”

“And how was it supposed to trap him, exactly?” Blaise said. “None of the obstacles was designed to _trap_ anyone, and Finnegan got out easily enough when he went back for help—clearly getting in was hard and getting back out was easy. And if the Mirror would only let someone who didn’t want to use the Stone take it—did no one consider that the Dark Lord might have a hostage? Oh, wait, that’s _exactly what happened._ And even if he _didn’t_ have a hostage, he could simply have stolen the Mirror!”

Hermione’s eyes widened. They all waited as she thought about it.

“What are you saying?” Fred said finally.

Theo looked at Harry. Harry shrugged. Might as well tell them.

“The whole thing was arranged so the Other Potter could face off with the Dark Lord,” Theo said. “It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

Fred and George looked thunderstruck. Hermione opened her mouth, righteous indignation already brewing—

And then she shut it again.

“You see it,” Daphne said.

“I…do,” Hermione admitted grudgingly. “But… Dumbledore wouldn’t…”

“Yes, he would,” Neville said firmly.

Everyone stared at him.

He met their curiosity with a stubbornly raised chin. “My family’s not much fonder of him than you lot,” he said, gesturing at the Slytherins. “He’s a manipulative old man riding on his fame, and he has far too much power in our world for anyone’s comfort.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” George said.

“Especially since most of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff seem to worship the ground Dumbledore walks on,” Justin muttered.

Neville stared at Hermione and the twins incredulously. “Are you mad? With the way Jules and Ron and Seamus go after anyone who disagrees with them? Dean just keeps his head down. I’ve tried to be friends with him but the other three don’t like _me_ for being friends with Harry and Slytherins in general, so Dean avoids me like the plague and never stands up to them. I have to ward my bed at night. If I went around saying what I really think about Dumbledore?”

Hermione looked floored. “Neville… I had no idea it was that bad for you.”

“I’m dealing with it,” Neville said uncomfortably, looking at the floor.

Harry made a note to loan Neville his book of ward spells. Most of them were still outside the range of Harry’s current power level, but there were a number of effective low-power spells that would definitely counter anything Jules could throw at them. He’d just have to warn Neville which spells were illegal as opposed to just discouraged. Slytherins wouldn’t turn each other in for illegal spells because they would literally _all_ go down in a pile for that, but the Gryffindors would in a heartbeat.

“What were you saying about Lupin?” Fred said.

Harry wasn’t sure if they should be discussing this in front of the twins. A glance Theo’s direction told him his best friend felt the same way. But it was kind of too late now.

“Dumbledore collects people,” Theo said. “Manipulates them. Take Hagrid. He could’ve argued for Hagrid to keep his wand rights, or keep his wand rights and go into _exile_ , back when Hagrid was framed for opening the Chamber. Hagrid would’ve been perfectly happy never returning to England, traveling the world and studying magical creatures no one else can even survive an encounter with. Instead he’s blindly loyal to Dumbledore and convinced only Dumbledore can give him a home and a life. Entirely dependent. Second year Dumbledore could’ve warned Hagrid before the Minister arrested him, sent him off to live in the Forbidden Forest until the whole thing blew over. He didn’t. He let Hagrid get sent to Azkaban as soon as Hagrid was a public relations liability instead of an asset.”

“Lupin’s the same,” Harry said darkly. It was even more obvious in light of his new knowledge that Lupin was a werewolf—no wonder he’d disappeared after the last war, no wonder he seemed so poor. “Dumbledore just left him to his own devices for ages… judging by the state of his robes, he hasn’t been doing so well. But he was supposedly a loyal member of Dumbledore’s side in the war, he was best friends with—with James Potter—but Dumbledore just forgot about him until he needed a professor. Now Lupin’s another blindly loyal figure who rolls over at the first sign of resistance from James or Dumbledore, probably reports back to Dumbledore about all of us in class, and keeps up the grand old tradition of Slytherin bias.” He paused. “I suspect they were hoping to bring me back into the fold, so to speak, if I bonded with my _godfather._ ” Harry sneered. “As if. He’s a cowardly, pathetic excuse for a teacher.”

“We, er,” George said.

“Never thought about it that way,” Fred finished.

Hermione closed her eyes. Harry could tell she was thinking through all of the angles, probably looking for a good counterargument. He was reasonably sure she wouldn’t find one.

“I… can’t argue,” she admitted reluctantly.

“No one in Hufflepuff thinks like this,” Justin muttered. “I mean… I don’t think the Dumbledore-worship is quite as bad as in Gryffindor…”

“Just think critically,” Neville said.

“That I can do,” Justin said with a grin.

Fred and George looked pensive, and didn’t bring the subject up again.

Harry knew Hermione would be there for a while, making sure her Transfiguration essay was absolutely perfect as well as half again as long as required, so he pretended to be puttering around his potions station while the others slowly trickled out. Theo sent him a knowing smirk before he left.

Once they were gone, Harry dropped the pretense and sat down across from Hermione. He reached out and tapped her essay. She looked up at him. “What? I need to finish this before curfew—”

“Did you read fiction growing up?” he said. “Or just nonfiction?”

“Fiction,” she said slowly. “A… fair amount.”

“Ever read _Leviathan?_ Not Hobbes; it’s a fiction novel for teenagers. _”_

“No…”

Harry shrugged. “Good book. Marge’s dog shredded my copy so I don’t have one to loan you, but it’s an interesting alternate history thing about World War 1. I bring it up because the main character has this one line that’s stuck with me: the fastest way to remedy ignorance is to admit it.”

Hermione bit her lip.

“Good night, Hermione,” Harry said, gathered his things, and left.

 

  _Harry,_

_Remus was over at the Manor during the holidays. He told me you were asking about Black. I suppose it’s reasonable for you to be curious—sometimes I forget you didn’t grow up with the stories!_

_To answer how we didn’t see this coming… Remus didn’t. Peter and I did, a bit. Remus’ job during the war involved a lot of undercover work. We actually thought he was the spy, I have to admit—Merlin, it’s hard to write about—because he’d spent so much time undercover. He didn’t see… _

_In school, Sirius hated Dark magic as much as the rest of us. His family is Dark as they come, and he wanted nothing to do with them. Ran away when he was sixteen. He spent the holidays at my house after that, summers too. But during the war… he started turning to the kinds of spells the other side was using. Not often. I only caught him at it a few times. Albus was worried, but he didn’t want to say anything; he knew how close we were… I wish he had. Maybe if we’d realized we were both worried about what Sirius was turning into, things—would’ve turned out differently. I’ll never know, and I’ll always carry the guilt for it. _

_I know you were asking Remus for some other stories about our school years, but it’s painful for me to think back on. Sirius was as good as a brother to me, and he betrayed us. I’ll tell some stories this summer when you come to the Manor._

_You said you were searching for a new broom, but Jules says he hasn’t seen one be delivered. Do you need help picking it out? I’d recommend a Nimbus 2000, or the new Cleansweep if Nimbus is still having production issues. I understand even the Slytherin team’s sponsor can’t bully the company into sending him another 2001. Good to see them showing Malfoy his place._

_If you have trouble in Slytherin—if you want out—I’m sure we could get Dumbledore to make an exception and move you into Gryffindor with your brother. Where Potters belong._

_-James_

Harry glared at the letter. He was deeply suspicious of this sudden willingness to bury the hatchet and be nice—and that offer to move him to Gryffindor! So bloody _arrogant_ , just _assuming_ Harry hated Slytherin and wanted out, assuming Harry needed help finding a new broom when he’d helped Slytherin trounce Ravenclaw only a week ago on a borrowed one, assuming the Sorting Hat was wrong, assuming he could simply throw the weight of his famous surname at Dumbledore and get Harry moved from one house to another—James was every bit as bad as Lucius Malfoy.

Actually, that was a spectacular insult. Harry filed it away to use on James next time he said something like this, which would almost definitely happen in the Manor over the summer. James would lose it to be compared to Lucius Maloy.

Now that Harry thought about it… James’ letters had been calmer this year. His father had been making an effort—stilted, but an effort nonetheless—to patch things over. _Jules_ was a different story; he’d been even more antagonistic; possibly the reminder of Black’s betrayal was making him more supsicious of Harry—actually, that could be why James was suddenly trying. He was making sure Harry wouldn’t betray them for hatred of Jules.

Harry snorted at the parchment. He didn’t hate Jules _that_ much. Or at all. He just thought Jules was an arrogant, lazy, fame-addicted bully. Not even worth Harry’s time to worry over unless Jules picked a fight.

The information about Black, though—that was interesting. Harry wondered, if Black had been turning to Dark magic in the war but still fighting against the same people, why James had been so worried. It was kind of ridiculous to care what magic someone used in a war as long as they were still fighting for the same side.

And Harry would eat his socks if Lupin hadn’t been “undercover” spying on werewolf packs. Voldemort had tried recruiting werewolves, giants, dementors, and merpeople to his cause, Harry remembered. Lupin was probably one of very few werewolves fighting for Dumbledore and the Potters’ side.

He snorted. So much for the “tolerance” of the Light.

Harry skimmed the letter one more time, decided he could take advantage of his father trying to stay on decent terms with his Heir if that was what it took to get access to the Potter library again over the summer, and set it all aside. He had schoolwork, language lessons with Theo and Babbling, dueling club, Quidditch practice, independent studying ahead of his classwork, and the Patronus charm on his plate. Sirius Black wasn’t his problem. He didn’t need any other excitement.

 

Malfoy, evidently, disagreed.

He spent most of January making snide comments about Hagrid the oaf and his terrible teaching abilities, or about Muggles, or Gryffindors, or all three, crudely and obviously trying to get a rise out of any of the Gryffindor third years. Part of Harry was tempted to interfere but he frankly didn’t care enough about Hagrid to rise to the man’s defense. According to Blaise and Pansy, Care was a bit of a nightmare and the insults to Hagrid’s teaching ability were actually not untrue. Plus, Hagrid had jumped to befriend Jules and Ronald and Seamus while ignoring Harry, presumably because of Harry’s House. Or possibly on Dumbledore’s orders. Harry suspected it was both; Hagrid seemed nice enough to try and look past the color of Harry’s tie, but it was to Dumbledore’s advantage to have his loyal follower on good terms with the Boy Who Lived. Just another chance to indoctrinate Jules. Dumbledore was extremely clever but Harry wondered just how no one else ever seemed to notice his manipulations if a pack of Slytherins had been onto him since first year.

Probably the Light people just went along with him “for the greater good.” Harry was not convinced.

Unfortunately for him, most of Gryffindor loved Hagrid, and it was distressingly easy for Malfoy to pick arguments with Jules, Ronald, Seamus, and Hermione, whose fierce hatred of bullies and Gryffindor nature meant she rarely backed down from an opportunity to defend Hagrid. It happened in Potions, in the halls, during meals, and any other time they saw each other.

“This can’t go on,” Neville muttered one day, while Jules and Malfoy sniped at each other across the half meter between their potions stations.

Harry tossed crushed beetles into his cauldron and gave it a stir. Most of the time, in class, he didn’t bother to sink into an Occlumency trance and really get into the slow, ritual magic of brewing. He’d been doing third year potions for a year and a half now, and their classwork was almost distressingly easy. The only entertaining parts were listening to Snape’s sarcastic insults, snickering at Jules, Ronald, and Seamus’ terrible potions, and keeping an eye on Neville, though the latter was much easier after three years of working together outside of class. Neville would never be a Potions Master, but he’d have about average competence with a cauldron.

“I don’t like Ronald much more than I like Malfoy,” Harry said. “If they want to get into fights, it’s not my problem.”

“They’re dragging Hermione into it.”

Harry looked up and saw that Neville was right. Hermione was indeed glaring at Malfoy. She hadn’t joined the argument yet, but it was only a matter of time.

“Fine,” Harry sighed, checked around that no one was paying attention to him, and reached out with his magic to dump a double measure of  doxy eggs into Malfoy’s cauldron.

The pewter cauldron melted into sludge seconds later, letting a sentient-looking gel ooze directly at Malfoy. Harry blinked. He hadn’t expected _that_ response. It appeared to have locked onto the magic of the brewer. Malfoy shrieked and scuttled backwards. Snape swept in and vanished the sludge.

“Happy?” he said.

Neville rolled his eyes. “Not what I was going for…”

“He’ll have stopped bothering them,” Harry said.

He made a mental note to research and experiment with the effects of doxy eggs on the Pepperup Potion at a later date. Being able to recreate the production of a sentient, possibly malevolent gelatinous fluid locked onto its brewer from a potion in process was a skill worth having.

Harry finished his potion while ignoring the mild chaos that had erupted at the front of the room. Neville’s concentration slipped, but he still pulled off a passable result. Harry handed his potion in and decided Jules and Ronald were looking entirely too smug. He wandlessly knocked their potions vials off the desk and let them shatter to the floor.

Neville glared at him.

“Oops,” Harry deadpanned, falling in with his friends on the way out the door, followed by Jules and Ronald’s angry protestations.

“You are impossible,” Neville grumbled.

Blaise and Theo laughed.

 

“I am sick of all this snow,” Lavender Brown complained. “It’s just so cold all the time…”

Harry tuned out the Gryffindor’s ceaseless whinging and focused on Dumbledore’s latest idiocy, an outdoor class for all the third-year students about “school pride” and “kindness” and “making sure no student gets left behind”. Harry had cast a powerful Notice-Me-Not and managed to avoid the old man’s twinkling eyes from where he stood behind the round, dumply, aggressively smiling man who was rambling on about Smithers’ Seven Steps of Conflict Resolution.

Some wandless warming charms courtesy of Harry kept him and his friends warm in their robes while their peers shivered. The group of them paid enough attention to the drama to keep anyone from scolding them and spent the rest of their time arguing under their breaths about their essay on rare and undectectable poisons due Monday. That, or whether or not Snape had more than two identical robes that he just recycled.

They were still bickering as they left the courtyard after the useless and frankly quite boring talk. Harry was midway through his third time explaining the stabilizing properties of ground bicorn horn when he was interrupted by Justin muttering “Merlin, speak of the dungeon bat and he arrives.”

Harry glanced up. Professor Snape was waiting by the stairs that led down to the dungeons with his customary scowl. Harry had come to know his expressions quite well and interpreted this one as ‘vaguely irritated to be spending my time on this errand but not particularly angry or homicidal’, which was good, because he seemed to have been looking for Harry.

“Sir,” Harry said respectfully as Snape swept to a halt in front of them.

“Potter.” Snape raked his gaze disdainfully over their group. “Come with me.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry flicked his fingers goodbye to his friends and marched along in Snape’s wake as his Head of House led the way down to the dungeons.

Snape spoke not a word until they reached his office. Harry stood with his hands held loosely at his sides—it wouldn’t do to show anything other than respectful but relaxed posture—while Snape moved to the other side of his desk and reached for something underneath it.

Harry’s eyes widened minutely as Snape set the Firebolt down on the desk. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach for it, but he restrained himself. “It’s all right, sir?”

“It is indeed,” Snape said. “I haven’t the faintest idea who would have sent you this, but they appear to harbor you no ill will. Filius and I spent a considerable amount of time ensuring it is safe to fly.” He fixed Harry with a baleful glare. “I acknowledge that the circumstances leading to our earlier loss were out of your control. You are now the owner of the best racing broom in the world. Make up for the ill luck that befell you.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, unable to stop himself grinning widely as he picked up the broom. It felt light in his hand, light and ready, practically vibrating with potential. “I’ll do that. Thank you, sir.”

Snape merely nodded, impassive as ever. Harry couldn’t even take the time to try and parse the Potions Master’s games.

The Firebolt was clean, and it was his.

He checked the map, ran back to the Slytherin dorms, and went straight to the seventh year boys’ room. Marcus Flint had failed three NEWTs and had spent his eighth year either obsessively studying or obsessively practicing. The result was a very stressed young man who spent almost no time socializing.

Harry knocked on the door.

Simon Fentiss was the one to pull it open. He curled his lip when he saw Harry. The feeling was mutual. Back in early second year, before Harry had managed to eke out a semblance of acceptance from the older students, Fentiss had hexed him in the hallways and Harry had gotten into his things as retribution. It seemed Fentiss remembered the incident about as clearly as Harry did.

Harry smiled innocently at him. “Sorry to bother you—is Flint here?” He knew perfectly well Flint was there, and if Fentiss tried to lie…

He didn’t.

“Marcus,” Fentiss called over his shoulder. “Potter’s here for you.”

Flint appeared a few seconds later, scowling. “What, Potter, I was in the middle of—”

Harry held up the broom.

Flint and Fentiss’ jaws dropped. “Merlin’s balls,” Fentiss breathed. “Is that a _Firebolt?”_

“Got it back from Snape,” Harry said, smirking. “No malevolent magic of any kind.”

“Can I?” Flint said reverently, holding out his hands.

Harry passed him the broom.

Flint turned it over, examining every inch, from the gleaming golden brown handle to the silver fittings and footrests (a custom job; Harry had seen it done in bronze in Diagon Alley, so whoever sent it knew he was in Slytherin) to the perfectly sleek and aerodynamic tail.

“Practice tomorrow is going to be bloody brilliant,” Flint said, passing it back with a maniacal smirk. “When you sort out who sent it, let me know, I want to give them flowers. You’re taking it out today, right?”

“Right now,” Harry said. “I’d like to get the feel of it before practice.”

Flint nodded approvingly. “Take some friends—the Black curfew thing is still in effect, but if you’ve got company you should be fine.”

“Noted,” Harry said.

He swung by his dormitory to pick up Blaise and Theo. Neither of them was a particular fan of flying, though they enjoyed Quidditch games from the sidelines and cheered Slytherin as fiercely as anyone else. Plus, this was a _Firebolt._

They were excited enough that both of them lost their usual composure. Harry saw Malfoy greedily eyeing the broom and decided to be magnanimous and invite the other boy along. Maybe if they got on better terms he could use other methods of reining Malfoy in than sabotaging his potions, which was getting a little old, even if it worked simply by virtue of Malfoy knowing it was Harry’s tried-and-true way of getting some payback.

Neville they collected from the Great Hall, since it was the tail end of dinnertime. Harry wasn’t about to say the word “Firebolt” in here, so all he did was loiter outside until Neville walked out with Hermione and Justin.

They all faltered when they saw Harry, flanked by Theo and Blaise, clearly holding something behind his back, with Malfoy lingering slightly awkwardly off to one side.

“Harry,” Neville said, looking warily in Malfoy’s direction. “What’s up?”

Harry grinned and shifted, letting the broom show at one side. All three of them knew about it; he’d written everyone to tell them the story of the broom the day he got it. Their eyes got wide as saucers. “No way,” Justin breathed. “That’s why Snape wanted you. It’s been cleared?”

“No malevolent magic on it at all,” Harry said, still grinning.

Hermione shook her head in awe. “Someone _really_ likes you.”

“I know,” Harry said. “I’m going to test it out, want to come?”

“I’ve got Muggle Studies homework,” Hermione said. Judging by the way she cut her eyes at Malfoy, this was either a lie or a stretch of the truth designed to provoke him.

Harry didn’t even look over at the blond. “Have fun,” he said. “You’ll see me on it at the next match, at any rate.”

“That I will,” Hermione said. “Neville?”

“I’m going with Harry,” Neville said.

Justin nodded fervently. “Me too.”

Hermione shook her head, but she was smiling. “You lot are ridiculous.”

The group started on down to the pitch.

“Harry,” Neville muttered, falling in at Harry’s side, “why’s Malfoy here?”

“I’m feeling nice,” Harry said.

Neville looked at him sideways. “You’re not nice.”

“Why, Neville,” Harry said. “I am offended.”

“No, you’re not,” Neville said.

Harry smirked. “He’s here because if I don’t antagonize him I might be able to influence him a bit. In less obnoxious ways than sabotaging his potions. Don’t you appreciate my efforts? I thought you didn’t approve of what I did in class the other day…”

“I’m not sure this is any better,” Neville muttered, but he seemed to have made his peace with it.

Harry stopped on the edge of the pitch and almost hesitantly held the broom out at his side.

“Go on,” Theo said. “Show us what it’s like.”

Harry let go.

It floated in the air, at the perfect height for him to mount. Harry threw his leg over the broom and his hands slid naturally into the grip he preferred, modified slightly to accommodate for his rather unimpressive height—the broom trembled with anticipation—or maybe that was Harry, he couldn’t tell—

He kicked off.

It was incredible. Harry actually left his composure on the ground and yelled for joy as he shot up in the air faster than he’d ever flown. The Firebolt responded to his every thought, turned on a dime, stopped so easily his stomach rolled and accelerated so fast he literally could not breathe the first few times before he got used to it. He sped around the pitch. Adrenaline pounded in his veins and he knew nothing but the speed and the freedom and the challenge and the thrill.

Harry threw the broom into a dive, pulled up so sharply his toes brushed the grass, ascended skywards in a dizzyingly tight corkscrew, lapped figure eights around the goalposts so close his hair brushed the stone, shot over his friends’ and Malfoy’s heads upside down and hanging only by his knees, hands stretching earthwards towards them.

Once he was past them Harry grabbed his broom again, turned, used the centripetal force to spin himself upright again, and whipped back around towards them. He skidded to a sideways halt half a meter from their faces. Laughing with sheer delight.

“Merlin,” Malfoy said.

“Harry, can I have a go?” Neville said.

Harry jumped off and handed the broom over.

In the end, everyone got a turn. Even Malfoy. Blaise, Neville, Theo, and Justin were all relatively cautious; the broom’s sensitivity made it a challenge even for Harry to manage and they all had a lot less experience. Malfoy wasn’t _quite_ as bold as Harry had been but he certainly put himself through his paces, and by the time he landed he’d forgotten to be the snobbish pureblood heir and was just a thirteen-year-old boy who loved Quidditch.

They wandered back up to the castle in a delighted group, ignoring the chill and the darkness, talking over one another in their excitement about the Firebolt.

Of course, as soon as Justin and Neville left for their dorms and the Slytherins headed back to the dungeons, Malfoy got more and more awkward and aloof, until he’d returned to his usual sneering distance. Harry watched the progression with a tiny pinch of regret. This was the first true glimpse he’d gotten of what Malfoy might be like under all the nastiness and spoiled prattishness. He found he rather liked what he’d seen.

But if Malfoy couldn’t get over being a prat most of the time, it wasn’t Harry’s problem.

 

There was some sort of drama in Gryffindor the next day; Ronald was convinced that Hermione’s cat had eaten his rat— “Good riddance,” said Theo when Hermione told them—and was loudly pontificating to anyone who would listen in the common room that Crookshanks was a monster. Blaise offered to shut him up, but Hermione just grimly shook her head.

Harry paid it little attention. He let himself take the day off from his schoolwork and headed down to the pitch as soon as class let out, muttering the password for the Slytherin locker rooms and dashing inside. He dragged on his padded trousers, Quidditch sweater, the leather padded harness on his torso, forearm guards, fingerless leather gloves, and goggles faster than he’d ever suited up before, and headed straight out onto the pitch.

The rest of the team hadn’t arrived yet. Harry knew the Firebolt’s sensitivity would take some getting used to and he had no intention of embarrassing himself in practice by accelerating faster than he meant to and slamming into a goalpost. He jumped on board the broom and laughed again. It was every bit as wonderful as he remembered from the day before.

Harry spent an hour running solo Chaser drills—he did indeed crash into something, though it was the wall around the pitch and not a goalpost—and was almost completely comfortable on the broom by the time the rest of the team showed up.

Between Malfoy and Flint, everyone else had heard plenty about the Firebolt. They still crowded around and spent a good ten minutes in the locker room discussing all the various enchantments, materials, and statistics of the broom. Bletchley commented on the same thing Harry had noticed—the fittings on this one were customized to be silver instead of the gold like the standard broom, which meant whoever sent it to him knew he was a Slytherin. Happily, the silver somehow worked with the gold-brown handle and dark brown gleaming tail twigs.

It was one of the team’s best practices. Harry had been able to keep up with Pucey and Flint before, but now he more than matched them for speed and maneuverability. They worked feverishly on modifying their plays and timing to accommodate and take advantage of the speed discrepancy between Pucey and Flint’s brooms versus Harry’s. Harry would be responsible for making sure he didn’t outstrip them in joint plays; at the same time, they could add individual dashes up the pitch and at the goalposts for Harry that would only be possible on a broom that easily outstripped its opponents. Harry wasn’t totally sure how he felt about being the lead Chaser, a role usually left for Pucey, but he had to admit getting to show off in front of the entire school on this broom would feel pretty damn good. Not to mention in front of _Jules._

Harry paused. Jules might not even know yet. Unless Neville told him… if he hadn’t, Harry decided, he’d tell Neville and Hermione at dinner to keep it quiet. If the secret was still a secret he was going to keep it that way until Slytherin’s next match.

 

The next match to be played, however, was Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. Harry turned out with the rest of the school to watch. Neville, Hermione, Justin, and Hannah—a pleasant surprise—tracked down Harry, Theo, Blaise, Daphne, and Pansy, and all of them piled into the stands together. Hermione and Neville were cheering for Gryffindor by default. Harry grinned at them while shooting blue-and-bronze sparks out of his wand. Hermione rolled her eyes and Neville, after a few seconds of concentration, managed some red and gold. Justin laughed and stayed out of it.

Harry looked around, frowning. That was odd… Malfoy was gone. So, oddly, were Crabbe, Goyle, and Bulstrode. Normally Malfoy would never miss a Quidditch game.

He put it out of his mind as the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor teams were announced and the match started.

The Ravenclaw Seeker, Cho Chang, was pretty good on a broom—Jules had the advantage on his Nimbus 2000 over her Comet Two Sixty, but she was quite good at marking him so closely their knees kept bumping and he had no advantage. Harry grinned. It was a clever tactic. And he definitely enjoyed the mounting frustration obvious on Jules’ face.

Suddenly—seconds after a Gryffindor goal—Jules and Chang lunged in the same second. A great murmur of excitement went up from the stands. Harry leaned forward, watching closely—

But a Ravenclaw Beater slammed a Bludger in Jules’ direction at the last second, forcing both him and Chang to veer off course; the Snitch was lost.

“Yes! Ravenclaw!” Theo shouted. Harry whooped along with him.

The Chaser play was brilliant. Harry watched hungrily, filing away details for later about Ravenclaw maneuvers and Gryffindor instincts. Every team had its secret plays, its favorite tactics and maneuvers and positions and responses, and if you watched closely enough for a long time you could pick them up. The Gryffindor Chasers were quite good. In Harry’s completely biased opinion, not as good as the Slytherin lineup, but still impressive. Ravenclaw, not so much. The Gryffindor Keeper was just blessed by Merlin to fly a broom.

So, unfortunately, was Jules, but Chang blocked him out of nowhere when he shot after the Snitch again. Harry made a note to congratulate her on some good flying later.

Gryffindor scored again. Harry cheered for Ravenclaw still but it was becoming more and more obvious who was going to win this match.

The crowd’s interest spiked. Harry tore his eyes away from a clever Talon Strike by two Ravenclaw Chasers. Jules had spotted the Snitch again, Chang couldn’t hope to match him—

“Oh!” Chang screamed, pointing.

Harry looked where she was pointing. Three—no, those weren’t dementors, they were earthbound and the wrong size, but if you didn’t look closely—

Jules whipped his wand out. He was too far away for Harry to hear the incantation, but a cloud of something silvery shot out of his wand at the three fake dementors. Indistinct and cloudy, but it _moved_.

Ten seconds later, Jules had caught the Snitch, and Harry had the misfortune of seeing Bulstrode fight her way out of one of the cloaks on the ground. The other two were still tangled and disastrous.

“Oh Merlin,” he sighed, because he had a strong feeling Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were under the others.

McGonagall was bearing down on them with fury. The Gryffindor team was swarming their Seeker in the middle of the pitch, and all laughing at Malfoy’s plight.

“That idiot,” Blaise hissed. Around them, most of the Slytherins were muttering angrily. Malfoy was not hated, and his name commanded something like respect from the upper years—but this was taking it too far. Being too crude. Not to mention he’d gotten _caught._

The mood in Slytherin was a sullen and roiling anger that night. Malfoy, the beefcakes, and Bulstrode went straight to their dorms—the points lost and general humiliation of the day meant they knew they’d be targets.

Harry was even pissier than the rest of his House, because Jules, apparently, could cast a Patronus that _moved_. No matter he had an instructor, no matter he could use framing and adult help—Harry had to be _better_.

He crept out of the dorms and practiced until he couldn’t cast anymore, with both the ash and holly wands.


	9. Rivalries

**9**

Somehow, the next day, Ronald Weasley managed to usurp Jules’ popularity in Gryffindor.

Harry stared across the Great Hall. Weasley looked to be _holding court_ at his section of the table—honestly, he had no subtlety at _all_ —and appeared to be repeating a dramatic tale.

“Anyone know what’s up with Weasley?” Theo said, buttering toast and eyeing quite possibly his least favorite fellow third year across the hall.

Blaise twisted to glance over his shoulder. “Certainly seems full of himself this morning.”

Harry surreptitiously let the still-sleepy Eriss reach out of his left sleeve and snap up some bits of egg white. He examined the shifting currents of attention at the Gryffindor table, and smirked. “My brother’s none too happy about it, look…”

Jules was sitting a meter away from Ronald, eating his breakfast sullenly and occasionally glaring at all the people around Ronald. Harry couldn’t blame him; sycophants were irritating and Ronald’s popularity was probably for something stupid, like he’d stolen a bottle of firewhiskey from an upper year and done something inane. On the other hand, Harry strongly suspected Jules’ anger came mostly from someone else getting more attention than he did.

“This should be entertaining,” Blaise said. “Don’t we have a joint Potions lecture this evening?”

“Yes,” Daphne said, watching the Gryffindor table predatorily. “Yes, we do.”

 

The five of them intercepted Neville and Hermione on the way down to the dungeons. Their Gryffindor friends repeated, with an air of great weariness with the tale, a story of Sirius Black and passwords stolen from a first year who wrote them all down because he could never remember and an attack on Ronald bloody Weasley, who’d woken up to find Black standing over him with a knife.

“That makes no sense,” Harry said when they were finished. “At all. Surely Black would know better than to choose the _wrong bed_ —and if he’s this horrific murderer everyone thinks he is, he’d have killed Ronald before he got a shout off!”

Hermione frowned. “He did break into a dormitory holding a knife. That… doesn’t say good things about his intentions. Or his mental state.”

“Bloke was in Azkaban for twelve years,” Neville said. “I’m surprised he’s sane enough to even make it here.”

“And of course now Ronald is even less bearable than usual,” Hermione said. She’d picked up on Harry’s habit of using his full name. ‘Weasley’ felt too formal after having spent so much time with the other boy in the early summers Harry had spent as a wizard, plus there were so many Weasleys he’d been more or less forced to drop the habit when he stayed at the Burrow. His Slytherin friends still called Ronald by his last name. Usually in a tone of sneering disdain they reserved for Ron that told everyone exactly who they were referring to.

Neville looked very harassed. “He’s going about retelling the story to anyone who’ll listen like he did something heroic… all he did was sit up and scream, it’s not _that_ big a deal…”

“I expect he’s jealous of Jules, usually,” Hermione said tiredly. “And now he’d got a taste of attention and he doesn’t want to lose it. Meanwhile he’s still furious at me over Crookshanks. I keep trying to tell him it’s just what cats do—”

“No gossiping in the corridors, Miss Granger,” Snape said icily, having opened his classroom door to glare at them. “If you’re going to arrive to class early, you might as well come in and prepare your potions stations.”

“Thank you, sir,” Blaise said. Harry trod on Hermione’s foot under their robes to keep her quiet. This year, Snape had taken to using Finnegan, Ronald, and Jules as his scapegoats for taking endless points off Gryffindor, letting Neville and Hermione slide by with little worse than sneering comments. Wouldn’t do for Hermione to blow a gasket and upset the balance.

Snape glared at all of them and stalked back up to his desk near the front of the classroom. They quietly filed inside and began setting out cauldrons and ingredients. Hermione, Daphne, and Pansy claimed one of the few tables large enough to accommodate a group of three. Talking about anything other than potions, however, was out of the question.

 _“Can you get into the Gryffindor dorms?”_ Harry asked Eriss once class was over.

She glared at him. _“Of course._ ”

_“Can you go check it out? See what you can smell?”_

_“It does sound like an interesting prospect…”_

_“Don’t get caught. You know the Gryffindors, they’d probably try to kill you.”_

Eriss flicked him on the nose with her tail. _“I’m hardly that careless.”_

 

She returned four hours later.

 _“Did anyone see you?”_ Harry asked, curling around her in his bed. He’d been more worried than he liked to admit with her gone. His familiar wasn’t particularly talkative most of the time—she was a snake, and a lethargic breed, and liked to spend the days quietly dozing in his pack or under his robes—but her presence was reassuring.

 _“Of course not.”_ Eriss nestled down into the warm blankets with a hiss of pleasure. _“I have the man’s scent… It was very odd.”_

_“Odd how?”_

_“He’s… hungry. Unhealthy. And… I can’t say what about his scent was strange. But something.”_ Eriss shook her head in frustration, an oddly human gesture. _“But I’ll remember.”_

 _“It’s nothing to worry about_ ,” he assured her, returning to a book on the runic bases of cleaning charms. _“We’ll figure it out in time, or we won’t.”_

_“I suppose…”_

Harry fell asleep with his book on his chest and one hand resting on Eriss’ back.

 

Harry sneaked out to Hogsmeade again the next weekend, ignoring Hermione’s fretful whispers that maybe it wasn’t safe. Harry responded that James had caved and allowed Jules to go, and if it was safe for the Gryffindor Potter it would definitely be safe for the Potter twin with common sense. Hermione had grimaced and let it go.

He crept out of Honeydukes’ cellar under a strong Notice-Me-Not charm, missing Eriss, who’d been with him last time he did this. She was still stubbornly refusing to accompany him outside or even around the castle most days. The shop was just as full as he remembered, and Harry vanished into the throng, just another student, nothing to worry about. He found his friends about halfway down the street and joined them. Once he’d gotten their attention, they shook off the effects of the charm and he was readily available to their notice; absorbed into the middle of the group, to anyone else, Harry was still unremarkable and unworthy of attention. Not as good as true invisibility for evading deception, but in some ways a properly applied and used Notice-Me-Not was more powerful than something like Jules’ invisibility cloak.

Which, technically, should be Harry’s by right, but he was content to let it sit in Jules’ hands for now. Mostly because he had no good way to claim his birthright.

And not just the Cloak.

Harry cast his rather dark and vindictive thoughts of his family aside and focused on having a decent day out with his friends.

 

Returning to the castle, however, turned out to be trickier, because someone was waiting for him.

Not by the one-eyed witch’s statue, thank Merlin, but leaning on the wall in the entrance hall, closely watching the figures crossing it. Harry checked his step as he got off the Grand Staircase, but it was too late.

“Ah! Harry,” Lupin said, walking over to him. “Just who I was looking for… Come along, wouldn’t you?”

Faced with a teacher, Harry couldn’t do much else but follow.

Lupin paused in an empty room on the first floor. “Harry, I’ve just received the strangest report from Jules and Ron Weasley… Now, as I understand it, you’re not permitted to go to Hogsmeade, correct?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry wanted to hit his head on the wall, and then go find his brother and hex him into pieces.

“How odd,” Lupin said. “They seem to be under the impression that they saw you in Hogsmeade twice—the second weekend visit, and now this one.”

“They must be mistaken,” Harry said evenly. He could lie effectively and convincingly in much more stressful situations than this. His heartbeat remained steady.

Lupin shook his head sorrowfully. “Unfortunately, I must investigate their accusations… Sneaking out to Hogsmeade, at a time like this… no, it won’t do…”

“Sir, I’d like to speak to my Head of House,” Harry said. “Professor Snape’s in charge of disciplinary action for Slytherins.”

Lupin looked like he’d just gotten a whiff of a rotten smell. “That he may be, but the report was made to me, and it’s therefore my responsibility to investigate if there was actually a rule broken… Turn out your pockets, if you would, Mr. Potter?”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. So transparent. As if he hadn’t been smart enough to give Theo and Blaise the books and sweets he’d bought to carry back to the castle for him. All he had in his pockets were a few quills, three scraps of parchment, the blank Marauders’ Map, his day planner, and a half-eaten package of Chocolate Frogs, none of which was particularly incriminating.

But for some reason, when Lupin saw the Map, his eyes widened. It was a slight reaction, and probably passed for subtlety among Gryffindors, but Harry caught it and was instantly on guard.

Too late.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to confiscate this lot,” Lupin said, eyes traveling over the pile. “To make sure nothing’s been… enchanted to disguise it. You understand.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, considerably angrier and warier now. Lupin knew about the Map. Somehow. “Will that be all?”

“Er—yes. Of course,” Lupin said. He was looking at Harry with keen interest that reminded Harry this man may have been a coward but he was also much smarter than James Potter. “I’ll see you in class.”

Harry left the room and went straight to Snape’s office to report that Professor Lupin had rather overstepped his bounds in searching and confiscating the personal effects of a student without more than rumors as “evidence” to justify the invasion of privacy.

Snape steepled his fingers and peered at Harry from the other side of his desk. “You realize, I am sure, that _Professor_ Lupin will likely receive at best a slap on the wrist from the Headmaster?”

“A slap on the wrist is better than nothing at all,” Harry said, and let himself smirk a bit. “Besides, he keeps calling me _Harry_. I doubt he’ll be happy to learn I trusted you of all people enough to go to with my problem… will he?”

Snape did what Harry had come to think of as his pleased face, which was somewhat vicious and threatening but more neutral than most of the Potions Master’s expressions. “No, I suppose he will not,” Snape said. “You may go, Mr. Potter.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, grinning, and left.

 

He got his things back the next day with a formal apology. Harry accepted it all with good grace and revealed nothing of his fury to Lupin, Snape, or Dumbledore, because the Map was missing, but he couldn’t put up a fuss about a single piece of parchment and even if he did Lupin would just hand him a different piece that wasn’t the Map. Lupin’s badly concealed satisfaction only drove the blow home.

That night, Harry managed to cast a mobile Patronus for the first time. Still incorporeal, but it was improvement.

 

The security measures imposed on the castle after Black’s second break-in made it much more difficult than usual to sneak away to the Knights Room. Harry suspended the dueling club for the foreseeable future, and stuck to using it just with his friends.

From Hermione and Neville, he learned that Hagrid was apparently under investigation from the Ministry for exposing students to dangerous creatures in uncontrolled circumstances, and was distraught. Blaise and Pansy thought it was entirely justified. Hermione got a determined look on her face and asked them if she could interview them about their classes so she could use the results in the case she was preparing for Hogwarts, so he could at least keep his job.

Then came the day Harry returned to the common room to find Malfoy moaning about on a couch complaining of a broken nose.

“It’s only a bit bloody,” Flint said disgustedly, cuffing Malfoy upside the head as he walked by. “Get over yourself.”

“The Mudblood _hit_ me,” Malfoy whined.

Flint caught sight of Harry and marched over, looking grim. Ava Pucey followed on his heels.

“Get him in line,” Pucey said bluntly. “He’s got no idea what it is to be a Slytherin, and we are all _sick_ of his whining and moping. If you don’t, we’ll have to.”

Harry blinked. Several things about this surprised him. First, that they considered him foremost among his year, the one who they ought to go to for keeping Malfoy in line. Second, that they were irritated enough by Malfoy to do something at all. Third, that they considered it enough of a problem to intervene themselves if Harry couldn’t take care of it.

He was also quite certain that now some or all of his own standing in Slytherin rode on whether Harry could deal with this challenge.

“Got it,” Harry said.

Pucey nodded sharply and stalked away. Flint followed.

Resisting the urge to sigh, Harry glanced around the common room. Theo and Blaise were over by the windows. He’d have preferred Daphne, but Theo would work.

Harry sat down with them.

“What was that?” Blaise said, nodding at the prefect and Quidditch captain.

Harry looked at Theo. “I’ve been tasked with getting Malfoy in line.”

They all turned in unison to look at the blond. He was slumped back against the couch, still going on about his nose, while Bulstrode nodded along, paying only half attention to Malfoy and the other half to some kind of graphic novel.

“I see their point,” Blaise said. He didn’t waste any time asking why Harry; they all knew the answer to that question. “I take it you’re planning already?”

“Yes,” Harry said grimly, “and my plan involves you. Theo, he’d take this better if you or Daphne is with me.”

Because Theo and Daphne’s families were the sort of old pureblood lines with ties to the Death Eaters that Malfoy would be more likely to respect, as compared to the halfblood Potter who’d had to fight for every scrap of recognition and every inch upward on the Slytherin political totem pole. They all knew it, and none of them needed to say it. Theo nodded instantly. “Ideas?”

The three of them spent thirty minutes discussing exactly how Theo and Harry were going to do this, while keeping their books out and looking for all the world as if they were only discussing their assigned class readings. Harry knew it couldn’t be too obnoxious, but it also had to be firm enough to get through to Malfoy, who had a truly impressive ability to tune out things he thought didn’t apply to him. Harry also carefully left some room for improvisation, assuming Theo could fill in some things he may not be willing to explicitly bring up in front of Harry but that would help influence Malfoy.

Bulstrode yawned widely and cut Malfoy off mid-rant, saying she was going to bed. The beefcakes were probably still up at dinner eating as much dessert as they could physically cram into their stomachs. Harry raised an eyebrow at Theo. Perfect opportunity.

Theo and Harry stood up and casually wandered over to Malfoy’s couch. They sat down across from Malfoy and opened their books.

It was a few minutes before Malfoy couldn’t take the silence anymore. He leaned forward to talk as Harry knew he would. “Can you believe the Mudblood _hit_ me?” he said.

“Yes,” Theo said.

“I know, it’s r—what?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “He said _yes,_ Malfoy, can’t you hear?”

Malfoy practically bristled with indignation. If he became an animagus, Harry suspected he’d be a peacock.  “W—but—rule one!”

“Rule one doesn’t apply in the common room,” Theo said. “It definitely doesn’t stop me from thinking of you as crass, spoiled, entitled, and breathtakingly narrow-minded.”

Malfoy puffed himself up.  “Don’t you speak to me like that!” he snarled. “My father will hear about this!”

“Oh, look, you’ve perfectly proved our point,” Harry said. He didn’t raise his voice. “You’ve no idea what it is to be a Slytherin, _or_ a Malfoy. All you do is throw your family name and money around and attempt to bully others into submission. You’ve no sense of tact or subtlety, and are so stubborn you refuse to notice when someone is better than you.”

“She’s a _mudblood,”_ Malfoy insisted. “She—”

“Beats you on every exam, both theory and practice,” Theo interrupted. “Finch-Fletchley does much the same. Lily Potter was a Muggle-born. She had more NEWTs than you can even dream of, and I can’t think of a single exam you’ve outscored _Harry_ on.” He smiled cruelly. “Not to mention, the Dark Lord recruited her.”

Malfoy’s expression was stuck between rage, confusion, and horror. So they were getting through to him. Malfoy was the sort of person with whom subtlety would not work. He needed to get hit in the face with anything they wanted to change about him. Maybe multiple times.

“So what do you want me to do?” Malfoy sneered, crossing his arms.

“Stop antagonizing Granger, for one,” Harry said. “Try to think about your actions. Try to handle things on your own instead of relying on Daddy. I do wonder how long Lucius Malfoy’s patience for being dragged into schoolyard squabbles will last. Try to consider that being sorted into Slytherin does not automatically make you great. It means you have the _potential_ to be great, if you _work for it._ ”

“Like you’ve done?” Malfoy scoffed.

Okay. Harry hadn’t wanted to resort to this—but if fear was what it took to keep Malfoy in line, fear was what he’d use. He went for his wand.

Malfoy caught the motion and tried to draw his, but Harry was faster.

 _“Duro_ ,” he whispered, concentrating fiercely.

Malfoy’s clothing turned to stone.

Malfoy yelped, suddenly immobile. “Potter—what are you—”

“ _Silencio_ ,” Theo added. Malfoy’s mouth opened and closed without making a sound. Theo smirked at him, leaned forward, and plucked Malfoy’s wand out of his hand, tossing it contemptuously into Malfoy’s lap. “Listen, you git.”

“You can sit here until someone with enough magical skill to reverse that spell comes along and takes pity on you,” Harry said, voice like ice. Didn’t matter what he’d told Neville. Malfoy had been an irritant for a good while, but more than that—he honestly believed the other boy had a lot of potential. “And while you wait, you can think about how Theo and I are both able to cast spells on the fifth year curriculum. If you come up with _any_ method that doesn’t involve working very, very hard on our casting for several years now, let me know, and I’d be happy to prove you wrong.”

He studied Malfoy for a few seconds, decided his point had been made, and switched his expression from cold anger to a warm, friendly smile in a half second, a trick Harry knew from experience tended to unnerve people. Malfoy flinched back a bit. His composure was gone; he looked uncomfortable, afraid, angry, embarrassed.

“See you later, Malfoy,” Harry said kindly, and patted the other boy on the hand. They stood up and walked away, leaving him sitting there staring after them.

“I really wish I could just set Eriss on him,” Harry muttered as soon as they were out of Malfoy’s earshot.

Theo snickered. “I’d love to see that… but you know, she might kill him, and then we’d have Lucius Malfoy breathing down our necks.”

“Yeah, best we keep her secret for now.”

 

That evening, Harry was coming back to the dorm from the bathroom down the hall when he heard a voice from up ahead that was distinctly Malfoy’s.

He paused. Harry had suffocated any part of him that felt guilty about eavesdropping so long ago that he didn’t remember doing it, if that part of him had even existed in the first place. He pointed his wand at his head and whispered a charm he’d been practicing for a while. It was a fifth-year spell but dead useful.

_“Amplius audi.”_

As always, the wave of acute sounds that slammed into his brain was painful. Harry gritted his teeth and fought his senses into submission with a combination of Occlumency and sheer stubborn will, focusing resolutely on their conversation and ignoring all the other grating background noises that threatened to shatter his self-control. He’d practiced the spell on mice at first and accidentally fried two of their brains before he got it right. Then he got a horrible migraine after the first few times he tried it on himself, before he got used to the mental strain. Thank Merlin for Occlumency. He leaned against the wall and listened.

“—understand Potter’s issue with me,” Malfoy said. “He’s a _Potter_. You, though, Nott? What would your father say to hear you defending Mudbloods and blood traitors?”

There was a scuffle and a thud. “He’d say what your father should’ve taught you as a child instead of letting you turn into a spoiled disaster,” Theo hissed. “Blood matters. Ability matters _more_. How many times is Granger going to have to kick your skinny ass before you accept that she’s not cheating, it’s not a fluke, she’s just _smarter and better at magic?_ And don’t get me started on the differences between you and Harry.”

“Potter is _weak_ ,” Malfoy snapped, but Harry could hear the uncertainty in his voice. The hesitation. It made him smile. “He doesn’t belong here. If you really think it’s a clever plan to attach your standing to his—”

“Your head is so far up your ass I’m surprised you can see straight,” Theo growled. “First of all, Harry is my _friend_. Second, if you’re that bad at seeing where the power lies, I contend _you_ don’t belong in this House. He’s more Slytherin than you, Malfoy.” Another scuffle. Scrape of feet. Someone walking away.

Harry ended the spell and slid backwards, ducking into a shadowed corner of the hallway. He knew the hidden places and quiet niches around the castle and the dorms better than almost anyone else thanks to his insomnia. Malfoy didn’t even look at him as he walked past, heading for the bathroom.

Once he was gone, Harry stepped out and headed back to the dorm. He gave no sign of what he’d overheard, but he lay awake for a long time thinking about it. He hadn’t realized until today that people saw him as the lead figure among his year. Pucey and Flint, and now Theo. He wasn’t sure which was more surprising.

Part of Harry was suspicious now—were Theo and Blaise, Pansy and Daphne only his friends because they thought he’d be the power player in Slytherin in a few years?

 _No_. He couldn’t let himself think like that. He had to have a _few_ people, at least, that he trusted. Theo had stuck with Harry since that first day in the bookstore, despite family differences, despite Malfoy, despite Harry’s initial unstable social standing in their House. Blaise… he’d become a friend early on, too. Harry could trust them if he could trust anyone in the world besides Neville, who was too nice to think of doing something like faking friendship for social standing, let alone actually do it. Pansy… she might’ve taken Harry’s bargains as an indication that he had enough cunning to advance in the House, and started cutting herself away from Malfoy as a result. Daphne had similarly become a friend later. But they were real friends now. He thought.

For a second, Harry hated that he had to think like this.

Until he realized that this was just how people worked, that there would always be those around him who would try to use him and take advantage of him no matter what House he came from, and more than anything else he was grateful for having been in Slytherin. At least here, there were no illusions. No lies. You learned the game early or you lost. Harry wouldn’t graduate a Hufflepuff who never had to worry about his House mates hexing him in the night or undercutting his friendships or using him in a power grab. He’d be prepared. And if nothing else… if nothing else, he’d have Eriss. Harry could feel her sleeping draped across his stomach. Always there. Always loyal.

 

Harry grinned at the Runes essay on the combinations of Anglo-Saxon, Futhark, and Chinese runes that Babbling had just handed back. The Chinese runes were difficult, but his studies in Old Norse, Anglo-Saxon, Gaelic, Ancient Greek, Latin, and Arabic were paying off; he could make very limited sense of a few of the books from the Slytherin library and knowing the languages was making his classwork much easier.

“Excellent work,” Babbling murmured, stopping at his desk with a wink.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Harry said respectfully. He liked Babbling, mostly because, like Vector, her enthusiasm was contagious. And unlike some other teachers, she was immune to House favoritism.

The class was dismissed a few minutes later. Harry had gotten sidetracked reading the next section of the textbook and was one of the last out the door. He started to hurry to catch up to his friends—

“Potter.”

He turned and was instantly on guard. “Carrow.”

Eriss stirred beneath his robes, poking her head out of his collar. Hestia expected Eriss to be there and so the Notice-Me-Not charm failed; the older girl paled slightly when Eriss hissed at her but rallied.

She fell into step next to Harry. “Top of the class again, I see.”

Harry just nodded. Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors could take false modesty and deferring when they got compliments. That earned you nothing but disrespect in Slytherin. If you were the best, there was no shame in admitting it.

“You’ve already helped me with Arithmancy.”

“Hoping to add Runes tutoring?” Harry said, smirking. “Justin says you’re a delight to work with.” Justin had actually said Hestia was cold and kind of frightening, if polite, but Harry laced his tone with just enough sarcasm so Hestia would know he wasn’t being fully honest. She probably didn’t care if she intimidated a third year Hufflepuff. In fact, she was probably doing so on purpose.

Hestia smirked, looking every bit as unrepentant as Harry expected her to be. “Hardly. I only scored two fewer points than you on that essay. Here.”

Harry examined the book she was holding suspiciously, then met her eyes. For a long second, he debated the risk of potentially offending her by casting a few detection spells, versus the risk of just taking something from someone who disliked him.

 _“It smells of old magic,”_ Eriss hissed. _“But nothing dangerous._ ”

Well, there were others around; if the book was cursed, everyone would’ve seen her hand it to him.

He took it.

Nothing terrible happened.

Harry read the title, flipped it open to the contents and then the first page, his eyebrows creeping upwards the whole time. Thankfully he had good situational awareness and managed to keep walking without bumping into people while he skimmed.

Hestia had given him an old edition of a book Babbling had mentioned in class once—an edition that hadn’t been edited by the Ministry for runes and rune arrays and runespells that were considered either Dark, dangerous, or both. It was also illegal.

“You arranged tutoring for me,” Hestia said. “My sister suggested I ought to do something for you. And with your obvious interest in runes…” She shrugged carelessly, but he could tell she was watching him closely. A test, like the one Theo had given him before first year even started, sending him a book of questionably legal ward spells.

Harry didn’t even hesitate to slip it into his bag. “You have good taste in books,” he said, letting a hint of a smirk touch his expression.

“Yes,” Hestia said. “I know.”

She stalked away to join her sister.

 

Harry finally told Theo, Blaise, and Neville what he’d figured out about Lupin. It took thirty minutes of arguing to convince Blaise and Theo that Lupin wasn’t dangerous and even Dumbledore wasn’t so stupid as to let a cannibalistic beast in as a teacher when his condition was well-known, which it almost definitely was if Snape was making him potions. And Harry had spied on them several times with the help of the snakes: Snape was brewing what could only be Wolfsbane, and taking it to Lupin on full moons. The snakes wouldn’t go near Lupin’s office on full moon nights—they said it smelled dangerous—but that was as good as visual confirmation. Neville shrugged and said Lupin hadn’t hurt anyone yet.

 

Spring approached, and with it, the Quidditch Cup final match. It was Gryffindor versus Slytherin, set for the middle of May, and tensions between the Houses were rising to a fever pitch. Harry, Malfoy, and Jules formed an odd sort of triangle. Jules hated both of the Slytherin boys, although it was a simple and uncomplicated loathing for Malfoy and a much more twisted rivalrous hatred for Harry. Malfoy hated Jules right back. Harry had a hard time outright _hating_ his brother but the constant hexes and curses thrown his way in the halls by all of Gryffindor were not helping. Fred and George told Harry bluntly that they wouldn’t sling any spells at him but they couldn’t stop the rest of the team from doing so. Harry shrugged and agreed to extend them the same courtesy. Bletchley and the twins seemed to be going a bit easy on each other, too, after Bletchley had spent some time flying with them and Harry over Christmas, but it was nowhere near a cease-fire. Students were assigned detentions and sent to the hospital wing in unprecedented numbers for using magic in the hallways.

Ronald Weasley and Seamus Finnegan, often accompanied by Jules, had taken to dogging Harry and Malfoy’s steps through the castle. Harry usually left Eriss in his bag or in his trunk so if the Notice-Me-Not charm failed she wouldn’t accidentally get seen.

Malfoy had been unusually reserved since Harry and Theo got on his case and he and Harry formed an uneasy alliance. Harry found himself defending Malfoy or being defended by him against hostile spellwork on multiple occasions. Meanwhile, Theo, Blaise, Pansy, and Daphne had resolved never to leave Harry alone. Theo refused to even let Harry go to the bathroom alone during or between classes. Harry thought this was ridiculous right up until Toby Pritchard and Ben Creed ambushed him and Theo on their way out to the greenhouses halfway through March. Harry and Theo left them in the mud, groaning after a combination of hexes and curses.  

“What was this one?” Harry asked, nudging Pritchard with his toe. The boy’s skin had turned pale, dry, and flaky.

Theo grinned viciously. “Modified Scale Charm.”

“Teach me later?” Harry said, firing a Stinger at Creed when the Gryffindor fourth year reached for his wand.

“Of course.”

 They cast a pair of Incontinence Jinxes at the Gryffindors for good measure and sauntered off to the greenhouses.

 

The night before the match, the silence in the common room was oppressive. Theo and Blaise were playing wizard’s chess, and normally Harry would’ve been right there with them, watching and analyzing. He couldn’t bring himself to think about chess. Or much of anything, really. He stuck with reading _The Hobbit_ and trying to lose himself in the Muggle interpretation of magic and wizards. It was difficult. When Flint finally stood up and ordered the team to bed, Harry went with gratitude.

His dreams were unusually chaotic. Harry remembered none of them when he woke up at four the next morning, but despite the fact that he didn’t feel rested at all, his brain wouldn’t let him go back to sleep. Dawn found him already in his padded trousers, flying boots, and green-and-gray sweater, sitting bleary-eyed and grouchy at the Slytherin table.

“How many cups of coffee have you had?” Theo said, eyeing the half-empty mug Harry was still cradling when he and Blaise finally came up for breakfast.

Harry looked down and tried to remember. “Um. Two? And a half?”

“Should I be worried?” Blaise said, eyebrows drifting up.

“Worry about anyone who pisses me off,” Harry said darkly.

He composed himself as the rest of the school started trickling in, making sure he was cool, reserved, and displaying no sign of the pressure or tension.

“Good front,” Pansy said as she arrived at the table with Daphne.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her.

“Please, we all saw how tense you were in the common room last night,” Daphne said. “And by _all_ I mean the four of us and no one else, because we know you.”

“Reassuring,” Harry muttered.

Theo kicked him under the table. “Ingest something other than coffee.”

Eggs and bacon and toast and jam had never looked less appetizing, but years of stealing half his food had left Harry acutely aware of his body’s energy needs, so he made himself clean his plate. Quidditch wasn’t exactly a low-impact activity. He stayed out of the conversation and periodically glanced over at the Gryffindor table, where Jules looked somewhere between sick and resolute and had barely touched his plate. Harry smirked. So Jules’ arrogance wasn’t bulletproof after all. Satisfying.

Wood hauled the Gryffindor team out before anyone else, to applause from their table and most of Hufflepuff. Flint deliberately waited several more minutes before simply standing up. The rest of the Slytherin team took the cue and followed suit, stalking out of the Great Hall with their faces set and hard. Harry ended up at the back of the group, walking with Malfoy. The applause from Slytherin and Ravenclaw was much more contained than Gryffindor’s had been, but no less sincere.

Flint lurked at the entrance of the corridor down to the Slytherin locker rooms with a Supersensory Charm running. “Wood’s going over the conditions,” he reported, while the rest of the team remained quiet, so as not to overload his hypersensitive senses. “Good weather. Still, clear skies. He’s warning the Gryffindors to watch out for sun glare. Firm ground so our kickoffs will be solid.” Flint paused. “They’re heading to their locker rooms… rest of the school’s coming down.”

The team retreated to the locker room. Harry tugged on his leather protective gear, gloves, and goggles. He reached for his Occlumency exercises. It would be a while before he was skilled enough to sink into a perfect trance on command, but with a minute or so of work he could still his mind and push all extraneous thoughts and emotions aside. Harry pushed everything away except his nerves, to keep him on edge, and his burning desire to win. Nothing else mattered. 

Everyone was suited up in record time, holding brooms and waiting in the locker rooms. Harry absently ran his fingers over the inlaid silver letters spelling _Firebolt_. No one outside Slytherin knew about his broom yet. He couldn’t wait to see Jules’ face. 

“We know their team,” Flint said harshly. “We know each other. We know how to play Quidditch. We know our strategies for today. We know we’re the best team in this bloody school.” He paused, looking at all of them in turn. Harry knew Flint would find nothing but iron resolve in all their faces. “Let’s go prove it.”

They formed up in the corridor. Harry kept his Occlumency shields high, kept them strong and supporting the weight of everything he didn’t want to feel or think about right now, blocking out all that was unnecessary.

Flint started walking. The rest of them followed: Bletchley, flanked by Pucey and Harry, then Derrick and Bole, and finally Malfoy at the back. Brooms propped on shoulders. Confidence written in their every stride.

They emerged onto the field to roars from the crowd. And jeers, mainly from Gryffindor. Harry drank in the cheering and the excitement, let it push his tension to a fever pitch.

“Captains shake hands,” Madam Hooch ordered.

Wood and Flint did as ordered. Like usual, they seemed to be trying to break each other’s fingers. Somewhere Lee Jordan was making derisive and horribly biased commentary. Harry ignored him, as he always did.

“Mount your brooms!” Hooch looked around and held her whistle at the ready. “Three… two… one…”

The whistle was lost to the roar of the crowd. Fourteen brooms shot into the air. Harry tore straight for the Quaffle, as they’d planned. His was the fastest broom out there and he beat Spinnet to the Quaffle by two full seconds, tearing out of the knot of Gryffindor Chasers and Beaters towards the Gryffindor goalposts. Wood wasn’t even all the way there yet. Flint and Pucey were already on their way, having known Harry would get the Quaffle. The Slytherin Chasers had no opposition besides Wood as they hurtled straight for the goalposts.

“I don’t believe it! The Slytherin Potter appears to be riding a _Firebolt!”_

Harry grinned like a maniac.

Wood blocked Pucey’s shot and then Harry’s, but then Marcus slammed one in and Bole took Wood in the stomach with a Bludger and they scored twice more before the rest of the Gryffindor team showed up to interfere.

Stunned by Slytherin’s fast beginning, Gryffindor didn’t rally until the score was 60-0. Harry flew literal circles around them with the Quaffle—sometimes for a tactical reason, sometimes just to piss them off—and ignored Jordan’s unsubtle hints that Slytherin was only dominating because of Harry’s broom. As if. They were dominating because they knew how to use their advantages to the fullest. Because their tactics were good and their teamwork was better.

Still, the Gryffindor team was a well-oiled machine, and they got their feet under them thirty minutes into the game. The score ticked up to 100-50. The Snitch remained stubbornly out of sight.

Harry lost himself to the game. Shooting up and down the pitch in perfect harmony with Flint and Pucey, dodging Bludgers—Fred and George were focusing on him, and it was slowing him down a bit—and relishing the wind in his hair, the delighted roars of the crowd.

He weathered a crunching shoulder tackle from Bell, passed the Quaffle to Pucey, dodged a Bludger, easily outstripped Spinnet, took a pass from Flint and slammed the Quaffle at the left hoop. Wood blocked it and passed to Johnson. Pucey was in a better position to mark her so Harry took off to cover Bell. The Gryffindor girl shot him a furious glare as he pulled up on her inside, cutting her off from the play she was trying to set up. Harry smirked at her.

When he could, he checked on the Seekers. It was an unfortunate fact that Jules was better on a broom than Malfoy. Gryffindor couldn’t catch the Snitch without being fifty points or more in the lead if they wanted to win the Cup. The score was 120-60. Jules would be trying to keep Malfoy away from it. Harry caught snapshots of their drama playing out high above the pitch. Malfoy knew this would happen. The Slytherins just had to run the score up so far Gryffindor had no chance of pulling that far into the lead.

Jules faked Malfoy out once. Everyone saw it. Even the Chaser play slowed for a second—with the exceptions of Wood and Flint, who were resolute in ignoring everything but their own tasks. Jules tore off towards the Slytherin goalposts, Malfoy hot on his heels. Jules pulled up right before he got there and said something taunting to Malfoy.

Harry shook his head and got back into the game. Malfoy needed to wise up.

He seemed to. Jules tried to fake him out again, but Malfoy ignored it, looking around for the Snitch.

The entire stadium caught its breath when he suddenly clamped himself down on the broom and took off.

Jules was a lot farther away from the Snitch from Malfoy. He was a better flier but Malfoy was still very good, especially for a thirteen-year-old. Jules wouldn’t be able to close the distance—

Harry could practically _taste_ the victory, it was so close, even as he took a pass from Pucey and scored while Wood was panicking—

Fred slammed a Bludger down the pitch. It clipped Malfoy’s knee and spun him wildly off course. The Snitch disappeared.

A groan went up from the Slytherin stands.

The game resumed, but it was rapidly becoming the dirtiest Harry had ever played. The Gryffindors were getting pissed and desperate, and the Slytherins were only too happy to respond in kind. Flint took a penalty shot, then Spinnet, then Harry, then Bell. Flint and Spinnet scored; Harry and Bell didn’t.

The clock ticked over to four hours of gameplay. The score was 190-100. Either Jules was successfully keeping Malfoy off the Snitch or it was stubbornly remaining out of sight. Chaser plays got progressively more complicated. Harry was exhausted. Games almost never dragged on this long anymore. His flying hadn’t started to deteriorate yet; he was still fueled by stubbornness and spite—but if this kept on another hour he’d start to flag. Luckily, so would everyone else.

Harry checked on the Seekers. Jules looked to be marking Malfoy as closely as the rules allowed. Occasionally closer if Hooch was distracted by the Chasers.

 “Get out of it, Potter!” Spinnet yelled angrily as Harry intercepted her pass. He looped around her and ‘accidentally’ kicked her broom handle on the way by, sending her spinning aside and leaving the way clear for another goal. 200-110.

Lee Jordan’s commentary was getting rather listless. He seemed to have tired even of insulting the Slytherins now that they were trouncing his team so thoroughly. Harry smirked at Jordan as he shot by the announcer’s booth on his way to line up for a Gryffindor penalty shot.

Someone yelled.

The stands roared.

Harry took a pass, shot it off to Flint, started moving into position while Flint and Pucey kept the Quaffle blurring between them, looked around while he had a second—

Malfoy was tearing off towards one of the student stands. Jules was hot on his heels. Somehow even though Malfoy had a better broom Jules was managing to coax more speed out of his Nimbus 2000—he gained on Malfoy even as Pucey put the Quaffle through the Gryffindor hoops again—Malfoy was stretching his arm out, reaching, straining—Jules threw himself forward, knocked Malfoy’s arm aside, and—

Jules pulled up, both fists raised in the air.

The crowd exploded.

“Two hundred sixty points to two hundred ten!” Jordan yelled. “Gryffindor wins the match!”

McGonagall said something grumpily to him.

“And the Quidditch Cup goes to Slytherin House.” Jordan did not sound nearly as happy about this as he had his previous announcement.

Harry sank to the ground, joining his team’s huddle. The Slytherin students were flooding the field, cheering, but—

They’d won, but they’d also lost.

The Gryffindors charged the field, too, lifting Jules and Wood onto their shoulders. Not to be outdone, the entire Slytherin team was boosted up into the air; Harry felt Featherlight Charms and other spells helping limit the weight. There was Hagrid, covered in red rosettes and wading through the Gryffindor crowd; there was Ginny and her friends, decked out in green and silver—Luna Lovegood had managed to charm a large paper mâché snake to wind around her head like a malevolent mockery of a flower crown—

And Professor Snape, smugly satisfied and passing the Quidditch Cup trophy to Flint.

But even as Flint lifted the trophy into the air, as the Slytherins and Ravenclaws and some Hufflepuffs roared approval—as Harry looked across the field and met Jules’ eyes, simmering with resentment and jealousy—

It didn’t feel like a victory at all.


	10. Revelations

The somewhat unexpected Quidditch result translated into a weird tension in the castle. Harry did his best to tune it all out and focus on exams, which were starting in a week. Gryffindor paraded around loudly declaring that Slytherin only dominated the Chaser play because Harry was a spoiled prat who had an expensive broom, and Jules clearly showed that Gryffindor beat Slytherin in talent.

Harry finally snapped outside Potions four days after the match. Jules had been loudly proclaiming his Quidditch superiority for ten minutes while they waited for Snape to open the doors. Malfoy was getting progressively angrier and Harry wanted to head things off before the blond lost it and did something crude.

“I’m not sure why you’re calling _me_ a spoiled prat, Julian,” Harry said, his cool tone slicing through Jules’ monologue like a blade. “Given that you’re the famous, favored child and I’m the Heir who’s not even welcome home for the holidays.”

Jules squared up with him. “You just think you’re better than me.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Harry said. “You’re a Seeker, I play Chaser. Although if we compare our Chasers to yours…”

“You lot only did so well because you’ve got a fancy broom,” Ron said, crossing his arms and stepping up to Jules’ side.

To Harry’s eternal shock, it was not Theo or Pansy but _Malfoy_ who stepped in.

“Please,” the blond said derisively. “You seem to think the Firebolt flies itself. Harry only scored a quarter of our goals out there, Weasley. Slytherin outflew you at every turn.” He deliberately turned his back on the Gryffindors and struck up a shockingly civil conversation with Daphne about some gala at the Greengrass manor in early July.

Harry kept an eye on the Gryffindors and a hand near his wand, but none of them made a move. Except Neville, who walked around the corner, slowed to take in the obvious tension, and very deliberately walked over to Harry.

“How’s your reviewing going?” Theo said to Neville.

Harry had to fight back a smirk at the looks on Ronald, Finnegan, and Jules’ faces as he let himself get pulled into a conversation with his _actual_ friends.

 

It was almost a relief when exams started the following Monday. No one had the time to worry about Quidditch anymore. Harry breezed through Potions and Runes, pulled what he thought would be maybe an E on Charms, definitely got high O’s in Arithmancy and Transfiguration, and thought he’d get decent to high scores in History, Astronomy, and Herbology. He couldn’t wait until OWLs were over and he could drop History and Astronomy. It was much simpler to buy a moving model of the sky for any spells or plants that relied on celestial movements and he hated wasting his time studying Ulfric the Oddball and Wendelin the Weird and goblin wars from seven centuries ago when he could be reading and studying things that were actually relevant, like politics and history from the last two hundred years that still affected wizards.

Lupin’s exam was definitely the strangest Harry had ever taken. There was a standard written portion, like usual, and Harry knew he’d done well on it even if creatures weren’t his favorite topic, but the practical was an obstacle course set up on the grounds.

“Merlin’s balls,” Theo said.

Daphne glared at him. “Language.”

“I’ll speak correctly when I’m with people who aren’t friends,” Theo said haughtily.

Pansy frowned at the obstacle course. “I’m going to get mud all over these shoes. I _just_ bought them.”

“Let me see,” Harry said.

Dubiously, Pansy hitched up her robes a bit to show him her shoes. They were rose gold flats with a subtle and almost definitely enchanted shimmer. Pretty enough, Harry supposed. He flicked his wand, concentrating fiercely.

“Did you… just cast _Impervius_ silently?” Theo said.

“I don’t know, did I?” Harry said innocently.

They stared at him for a few seconds. Harry looked back vacuously.

“I hate you sometimes,” Blaise said.

Harry was the last of the Slytherins to go. He successfully dealt with a grindylow, Red Caps in the potholes, and four hinkypunks in a bit of artificial bog.

The last part of the test gave him pause.

Lupin raised an eyebrow as Harry hesitated outside a very large trunk that almost definitely contained a boggart. “Everything all right, _Mr. Potter_?”

Harry looked at the man he’d come to despise nearly as much as James Potter with as bland an expression as he could manage. Which was about as bland as unflavored rice pudding, because he was in Slytherin for a reason. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

Stubbornly, he climbed into the trunk.

Harry conjured a bit of light in his left hand, leaving his wand free to cast the boggart spell.

The trunk was cramped. There was a formless cloud of black smoke before him. With a _crack_ , it formed into the same figure of desperate Dursley-dependent Harry, clutching a broken wand, that had haunted his dreams since he first saw it in Defense last autumn.

Harry glared at the thing. _“Riddikulus,”_ he hissed, and bore down on it with his will. He didn’t even try to go for funny this time. It was _going_ to become something that didn’t frighten him or it was _going_ to die.

The boggart _cracked_ and reformed into James Potter, thin, his hair greasy like Snape’s, hunched back away from Harry’s wand. Cowering. All his arrogance and bravado stripped away.

For one overwhelming second, Harry forgot this was a boggart and not the truth. He tasted incantations on his tongue, longed to hurl a jinx, a curse, while he had his father here at his mercy—

 _Fake_ , he told himself, pulling on his Occlumency shields, _false,_ and Harry stepped out of the trunk a second later, collected and victorious.

Lupin looked disappointed. He tried to hide it, and probably against a Gryffindor he would’ve succeeded. He was not nearly subtle enough to fool a Slytherin. “Full marks,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said politely, and managed to wait until he was out of sight before destroying several small rocks scattered along the side of the path that led back up to the castle.

Hermione sat down to reconstruct every one of her exams as soon as they were over, just like every year. Daphne traded her a favor for copies of the exams and promptly sold them to the second years. Ginny, who had been dressing every bit as nicely as her peers and carrying herself with a lot more confidence and composure since Christmas, bought a set of the exams for herself with a wink in Harry’s direction. He smirked back at her. She’d told him at breakfast right before exams that she told Nat and Evalyn about the vault and was going shopping with them in Diagon Alley. Apparently her parents thought she was going with the Lovegoods. Which, to be fair, she _was_. She’d just… coincidentally run into her Slytherin friends while she was there. “How Slytherin of you,” Harry had said with a grin.

Defense on Thursday morning marked Harry’s last exam. He happily headed out onto the grounds after, finding his friends’ favorite spot by the lake. None of his friends had taken Divination, which was the last third-year class to be tested.

Justin found them, and then Hermione.

“Where’s Neville?” Theo asked.

Hermione shrugged, bent over the notebook she was using to transcribe every question, in order, from the Defense written exam. Harry still didn’t know how she did it. “He was looking for something in the dorms,” she said vaguely. “I’m sure… he’ll… show… up…”

They left her to it and lay back, lazily discussing their exams and their summer plans. Neville arrived thirty minutes later, saying someone had hidden his shoes in the common room. “I’m pretty sure it was Seamus and Ron,” he said. “They’re angry because I did a decent job on the Potions exam and they probably failed, their Confusing Concoctions were completely the wrong color and consistency…”

“Don’t let them walk all over you, Neville,” Blaise said.

Neville grinned. “I’m not. I hexed all their trunks shut. Harry, that book of wards you loaned me is dead useful. Should take them an hour at least to break the wards, they’re pretty unusual. Some of the first in the book, though.” Harry took the last sentence to mean Neville had used the relatively benign and still legal spells from the first chapter or two, which was reassuring.

Theo looked up and around at Harry.

“Glad to hear it,” Harry said. He nodded minutely as soon as Neville looked away. Theo’s eyebrows drifted up a bit. Probably he was surprised that Harry had loaned Neville a book whose content was three-quarters banned spells. Harry had been testing Neville much as Theo tested Harry back in first year.

And Neville had not responded like a Gryffindor might be expected to.

 

Harry, Theo, and Blaise were walking out of the Great Hall after dinner, full and contented, when Neville accosted them, looking very worried.

“It’s Hermione,” he said.

The Slytherins instantly cast aside their drowsiness. Hermione was a friend. One of theirs. “What’s wrong?” Harry said.

“Ronald,” Neville said. Harry had never seen him this angry. “Ronald is what’s wrong. He’s still furious about Crookshanks _supposedly_ eating his rat. He yelled some—some really nasty things at her—Jules joined in, and then Seamus—she ran off crying, I think to Hagrid’s. Will you come?”

“Of course,” Harry said. “Will Hagrid be okay with seeing us?”

“I’m coming,” Neville said. “If he doesn’t like the color of your tie, he can deal with it.”

Theo cocked his head. “Gryffindor is really bringing out your spine, Nev.”

Neville shoved open a side door and marched out onto the grounds. “It surprised my gran, too,” he said over his shoulder. “I don’t think it’s Gryffindor so much as Jules and Ron and Seamus. And you lot helped.”

“We’re flattered,” Blaise drawled.

Harry snickered, but flickers of icy rage were chilling his fingers. He had to fight to keep it at bay. Hermione would need emotional support, which he was not at all equipped to give, but Blaise was actually pretty good with that sort of thing and Harry just being there would help her. He hoped. Either way, he’d have to hold off on getting furious with Ronald and Jules until later.

Neville led them across the grounds. Their shadows stretched long in the light from the setting sun. Eriss slipped down off Harry’s shoulder and into the grass to hunt; she’d meet him back in the dorms later.

Hagrid’s hut sat near the tree line, puffing cheerful curls of smoke. A sprawling and messy but well-loved garden stretched out along one side. It was small, and a bit run-down.

Neville knocked loudly.

The door creaked open a second later. “Neville!” Hagrid said, clearly relieved, and paused suspiciously when he saw the Slytherins.

“Good evening, Professor Hagrid,” Harry said politely.

For some reason, Hagrid flinched.

Harry frowned slightly before he caught himself and smoothed his features out again. He and Hagrid had barely spoken before, his eyes were firmly dimmed to a non-unsettling normal shade of green that matched the pictures he’d seen of his mother—he knew his entire appearance and carriage was put together and clean-lined and composed. So how was he startling an enormous man who could at this range crush him before Harry could even fire off a spell?

“They’re with me,” Neville said, crossing his arms.

“Who—who is it?” Hermione’s quiet, unsteady voice made Theo and Blaise tense.

Neville leaned to Hagrid’s side. “I brought Theo, Blaise, and Harry.”

“Hagrid, let them in, they’re friends,” Hermione said.

Hagrid stepped aside, letting the four boys into his hut.

Harry looked around with interest. It looked much the same as he remembered in here: cramped, cluttered, but obviously loved and lived-in. A home.

Hermione was sitting at Hagrid’s table, eyes puffy and red. She had a pile of tissues, a mug of tea, and an untouched plate of rock cake in front of her. “Th-thank you,” she said, attempting a smile.

“Go ‘head an’ sit,” Hagrid said gruffly, pulling out an oversized chair and following his own advice.

Harry, Theo, Blaise, and Neville sat down, too. “What did they say?” Blaise said, with more gentleness than Harry had ever heard from him.

Theo shifted a bit uncomfortably as Hermione sniffled and wiped at her tears. He was no better suited than Harry for this kind of situation. They were both sharp-edged things, more likely to cut than to heal. Thank Merlin for Blaise and Neville, the former of whom had gotten Hermione talking and the latter of whom was sitting next to her and had an arm wrapped around her shoulders.

“They—called me—a selfish idiot,” Hermione said. “For—not caring about Ronald’s rat. And they said I—only try to make them feel stupid—that I don’t deserve my grades or my reputation—that I’m probably cheating, or been corrupted by Slytherins, or something foolish—and I’ve just been so tired, and it was too much…”

“She hexed the living daylights out of them before she took off,” Neville said helpfully.

Hermione smiled a bit tearfully at the memory. “I suppose I did…”

“Good job,” Theo said, grinning. This he could handle. “Which spells?”

“Incontinence Jinx for Ronald,” Hermione said. “Couple Stingers and a Body-Bind on Seamus. Jules is a surprisingly good dueler, he blocked my first few spells but then I nailed him with a _furunculus_ and then _anteoculatia_. He ran off with Seamus dragging Ron.”

 “I’m sure they didn’ mean it,” Hagrid said. “You know those two, ‘Mione, they never think afore they speak…”

“They _should_ ,” Theo said. “It’s no excuse to be bullies.”

Hagrid looked taken aback. “Bullies? Don’ yeh think that’s a bit harsh?”

Harry met his beetle-black eyes flatly. “No.”

Again, that strange look on Hagrid’s face… Uncertainty—not fear, though, only—discomfort? And dislike. Definitely that.

Not Harry’s problem. He was here for Hermione, not Hagrid.

“Hagrid, could we make some tea?” Neville said.

“O’ course… here, lemme grab…” Hagrid reached out for a pitcher of water and a ceramic jar of teabags and four chipped mugs, which he passed around. Blaise cast several cleaning charms on them while Hagrid wasn’t looking before passing them to Theo and Harry.

Hermione sniffled, got out her wand, and used a Boil Charm to bring the water in Hagrid’s jug to a boil. Blaise picked up the ceramic pot of teabags, pulled off the lid—

And dropped it with a yell.

The jar shattered, spilling teabags and a scrawny, sickly rat onto the table.

“ _Scabbers_?” Hermione said.

Neville was the quickest on the uptake; he lashed out and tried to grab the rat. It dodged, but Harry snapped out of his surprise and managed to catch it by the tail before it disappeared.

“Well,” Theo said. “That was unexpected.”

“Do you often have rodents in with your teabags?” Blaise asked Hagrid icily.

Hermione was staring at the rat with genuine shock. “How…”

“Doesn’t matter how,” Neville said, taking the rat from Harry, who gladly gave the rather nasty-looking thing up. “We’ll take him back up to the castle and make Ron apologize.”

“I want to see that,” Theo said.

Harry smirked. “As do I. Let’s all go, he’s probably still in the Great Hall stuffing himself on pie…”

“Thanks, Hagrid,” Hermione said, smiling at the man.

His face softened and he smiled back, though it was difficult to tell behind the beard. “O’course, Hermione. Yeh’re welcome any time.”

Harry nodded politely to Hagrid before leading his way out of the house. He didn’t want to be there.

Neville tucked Scabbers into his pocket. “I can’t wait to see Ron’s face,” he said, grinning.

Hermione stood up straighter as they walked, tears fading into grim satisfaction. “Me neither.”

Of course, that was when a giant black dog hurtled out of nowhere and drove Neville to the ground.

Hermione screamed. Harry went for his wand instantly. Theo and Blaise followed suit. Neville hit the ground with a cry. The dog lunged for Theo, hurled him into Blaise and Harry and sending all of them down in a tangle.

Harry struggled free. _“Fulma!”_ he shouted, and a blaze of light lit up the area—

There was the dog—it was strangely familiar—dragging Neville backwards towards a tree—

“Come on!” Theo said, already running, Harry and Blaise and Hermione right behind him—

The tree shuddered into motion.

 _“Arresto momentum!”_ Hermione shrieked, and all three boys were jerked to a halt a half second before a massive branch plowed into the ground right were they would’ve been if they’d kept running.

They scrambled backwards, out of range of the Whomping Willow as it swung around for another try.

Neville was fighting, shouting—he couldn’t reach his wand—the dog had a strong grip, and it was slowly dragging Neville down into a tunnel at the base of the Willow that Harry had seen on the Map once before—

He dove forward, trying to fight his way through the tree, but it was impossible; Harry _might_ have managed to on his Firebolt but highly doubted it. The branches were too dense and quick.

“We need help,” Blaise said.

“No time,” Harry said. “That thing broke Neville’s leg, it’ll eat him or kill him before anyone gets here.”

“You go,” Theo told Blaise. “Find Snape—tell him—”

Blaise hesitated only for a second before he nodded and tore off towards the castle.

“We’ll never make it without help!” Hermione said, dodging another branch and fruitlessly trying to work her way to the trunk—

There was a darting flash of movement.

 _“Crookshanks?”_ Hermione said, disbelieving.

Her cat slipped beneath the branches with ease and pressed his paw to a knot at the base of the trunk.

The Willow froze.

Harry didn’t stop to wonder at the tree’s weakness. “Let’s go,” he said, sprinting forward before the temporary reprieve ended.

 He was the first into the tunnel, casting the strongest _protego_ he could manage—which wasn’t very strong but better than nothing—and holding the shield spell in front of him as he slid down an earthy bank.

It ended abruptly and he barely managed to keep his feet, staggering forward, but the shield didn’t falter.

No threats. Nothing moved.

Harry summoned a wandless ball of white light above his head just as Hermione and then Theo tumbled out of the passage. He canceled the shield so it wouldn’t draw too much of his strength and stayed alert as they climbed to their feet.

“Where does it go?” Hermione said, looking around nervously.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, setting off down the tunnel. Fortunately there was only one direction they could go. He bitterly wished to have Eriss with him, but he had no way of finding or contacting his familiar. “I saw it on the Map but it leads off the grounds in the direction of Hogsmeade.”

They fell silent after that, jogging along in an awkward half-crouch thanks to the low ceiling. There was nothing else to say.

The tunnel finally began to slope upwards, and then it twisted abruptly. Crookshanks was nowhere to be seen but there was faint light coming through a small opening above their heads.

Harry and Theo exchanged a glance before Harry sent his ball of conjured light through the opening.

No sound.

 _“Homenum revelio,”_ Theo murmured. He paused, waiting for the spell’s return awareness. “No one in that room.”

“Excellent,” Harry said, moving forward. Ready to cast a shield at any time, or a counterjinx, or a curse.

Nothing moved.

The room was cluttered, chaotic, and horrendously dusty. The windows were boarded up from outside; old wood slats were rendered gray and lifeless by the harsh white wizard’s light.

“I think… I think we’re in the Shrieking Shack,” Hermione whispered.

Harry’s eyes fell on a chair. Two of its legs had been torn off, and gouges marred its seat.

Theo said what they were all thinking. “Ghosts didn’t do that.”

The smart thing would be to retreat. Get help. They were three thirteen-year-olds; they were in no way the best option. But Blaise had gone for help. And that was _Neville_ up there. A friend—as close a friend as Harry had ever had.

“Be ready,” he said softly. “We hold off the dog until help gets here. There’s three of us—four, if Neville’s conscious—and we all know a number of good curses.”

“Some of which are illegal,” Theo pointed out, ignoring how Hermione choked a little.

Harry set his jaw. “If we need to use illegal curses to keep ourselves alive, we will, and burn the body so there’s no evidence.”

“Priori incantatem,” Theo reminded him.

“We’ll just have to be convincingly traumatized so they don’t get suspicious enough to check,” Harry said. “A wand is your property. They need a warrant to check it. Don’t they?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. A bit weakly, but she seemed to be taking this casual discussion of Dark curses as well as could be expected.

Harry nodded.

He led the way through a small door and into a dusty hallway.

There was a creak over their heads. Hermione latched on to Harry’s arm tight enough to hurt. He raised an eyebrow at her. She let go, biting her lip instead, but her wand was steady.

They crept up the crumbling staircase. Theo pointed at a stripe on the ground where the dust had been cleaned off by dragging something large and heavy. Harry nodded: Neville.

He extinguished his light at the top of the stairs. Halfway down the first-floor hallway, a single door stood half-open. Sounds came from it: loud purring, a faint groan.

“This is too easy,” Theo whispered.

Harry agreed. His every instinct was clamoring.

“That’s _Neville_ in there,” Hermione said, and then she was dashing down the hallway.

Theo cursed. He and Harry ran after her—they couldn’t let her go alone—

She hurtled around the threshold. _“Neville!”_ she said—

Harry and Theo stepped into the doorway, saw Hermione dashing to where Neville lay half-conscious on the bed. They crept farther in, turning so their backs were to each other, swiveling to scan the room as they advanced a step, two, three—

“Trap,” Neville gasped out, and Theo lashed out with _“Homenum revelio!”_ just as Harry went for the door.

He was too late. The man in the shadows slammed it shut and shot a powerful Disarming Charm at them with Neville’s wand. Harry’s holly wand left his hand. The man caught it and Theo and Hermione’s wands deftly, and stepped out of the shadows.

“Sirius Black,” Theo said, stunned.

Several pieces clicked together.

“Animagi,” Harry breathed. Black paused. “You and my dad… I _thought_ you might be animagi… Merlin! That dog I saw last summer—no wonder I thought you were familiar just now—”

“What dog?” Theo said.

Black’s face twisted into a rictus grin. He was malnourished and dirty. His sickly yellowish skin stretched taut over the bones of his face and made him look more like a fresh, reanimated corpse than an actual person; the sunken dark eyes gleaming with _something_ and his lank, greasy hair and torn robes didn’t help. “I see you inherited your mother’s brains, Harry.”

“I met his animagus form last summer,” Harry said, mind spinning as he looked Black over. “When I left the Dursleys… I thought he was a stray. Gave him some food. He ran off.”

“We were right, then,” Theo said. “You’re not trying to kill Harry, are you?”

Black paused. “Not Harry.”

“Then y-you are trying t-to kill _someone_?” Hermione said. She was standing steadfastly by Neville. Harry didn’t dare take his eyes off Black—if Harry got a chance he’d be taking his wand back—but he knew if he looked over he’d see her curiosity and loyalty battling fear.

“Yes,” Black hissed, glaring inexplicably at Neville. “I’ve waited twelve years for my revenge…”

“Neville Longbottom?” Theo said.

 _Good. Keep him talking._ Black was distracted, staring almost hungrily at Neville. Harry started to edge towards the door.

“The traitor,” Black breathed. “The _true_ traitor… oh, how I’ve longed for this…”

And just as he started to lift the hand with Neville’s wand, Harry moved.

He was short for his age. Shorter and skinnier than Jules, thanks to a malnourished childhood. But Quidditch and regular Hogwarts meals had packed muscle onto his frame, and he’d hit a few growth spurts—enough that when he slammed into Black’s stomach, it was a hard enough blow to take the weakened convict off his feet.

Harry rolled over and wrenched the wands out of Black’s hands. Always wands. Magic was the great equalizer. And he wasn’t about to betray his wandless magic skills unless he had to.

Black shouted. He tried to tackle Harry again but Hermione came out of nowhere and kicked him in the face. Harry scrambled back, out of range—he tossed Theo and Hermione their wands, threw Neville’s onto the bedspread, aimed his at Black—made it to his feet—

“Going to kill me, Harry?” Black panted.

“Hardly,” Harry said, his voice iron-hard. “I want the truth.”

Black laughed cruelly. “The _truth_?”

“Yes.” Harry clenched his left hand. “That night Jules defeated Voldemort. Something doesn’t add up. I want to know what happened, in your words. And then I’ll decide if I want to drag you up and watch the dementors kiss you or not.”

Black was quiet for a long moment… not still, though. His entire body was trembling. Crookshanks climbed onto his skinny chest and lay down, purring loudly.

The man opened his mouth—

“ _Protego,”_ Hermione shouted, and a shield charm appeared just in time to deflect a Disarming Charm from—of all people—Remus Lupin.

“Blaise went to _you?”_ Harry burst out before he could stop himself.

Lupin stared at him. “Mr. Zabini? Hardly.”

They were at a bit of a stalemate, Harry could tell. Lupin had three wands pointed at him. Neville had managed to drag himself to a painful sitting position and had his wand aimed at Black, who was on the floor and defenseless.

“Where is he, Sirius?” Lupin said.

Black glared at him for a few long seconds. Then, slowly, he pointed at Neville.

“But why didn’t he show himself?” Lupin said, almost as if he were talking to himself. He seemed to have forgotten the students in the room. Harry narrowed his eyes, busily putting the pieces together. “Unless… unless _he_ … unless you switched without telling me?”

Very slowly, Black nodded.

The timeline. No arrest records. It fell together for Harry a bare second before Theo caught on.

“The Secret Keeper,” Theo said. Lupin jumped and turned to look at him as though surprised to find him still there. Black grinned that horrible twisted smile again. “You traded… as a decoy?”

“I do remember hearing Pettigrew wasn’t much of a wizard,” Harry said.

Black struggled to a sitting position. “Peter’s clever. Not the strongest… but skilled. Canny. Dangerous in a fight mostly because he’d outsmart you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lupin said hoarsely.

Black scooted back until he had the wall to support him. “We thought you were the spy.”

“That’s what spying on the werewolves gets you,” Harry said snidely. “So much for the tolerance of the Light.”

 _That_ shocked both of them.

“Harry,” Lupin said.

“We’re not idiots,” Hermione said. “I worked it out when Snape set the essay…”

“So did I,” Harry added. “I told the rest in the spring. You said yourself you were doing things in the war that involved being out of touch with your friends. Wasn’t much of a leap to guessing you were trying to infiltrate the werewolves who allied with Voldemort.”

Lupin looked astonished. “You’ve… known? This entire time?”

“A few months,” Theo said.

Neville gasped in pain but managed to sit up. “What… you thought… they’d tell everyone… just to spite you?”

“Well, he’s been unfairly biased against Slytherin all year,” Harry said coldly. “So I can see why he’d be worried about some kind of payback.”

Lupin had the gall to frown at him reprovingly. “Harry—”

“I _asked_ you not to call me that,” Harry snapped. Honestly, enough was enough.

Black struggled to his feet, leaning on the wall for support. Crookshanks twined momentarily around his ankles and then wandered back over to Hermione, sitting at his mistress’ feet with as smug an expression as a cat could be expected to manage.

“So if you’re an animagus…” Hermione said slowly, staring half-terrified and half-curious at Black. “James Potter?”

Lupin nodded.

“If you didn’t see Blaise, how’d you know we were here?” Harry said.

“The Map,” Lupin said. “I had it open on my desk—”

“You know how to work it?” Honestly, Lupin seemed far too uptight to talk the spirits of several pranksters into giving up their—

“Of course I do,” Lupin said. “I helped make it.”

—secrets.

Harry blinked. “What?”

“I saw four of you go down to Hagrid’s hut,” Lupin said. “And I saw who you met there. Hermione, Hagrid… and one more person.”

Animagi. Four people who wrote the map. He could guess Moony was Lupin—werewolves, moons—and Padfoot probably Black, for the paws—which meant Wormtail or Prongs was his father and the fourth Marauder—and James Potter was far too enamored with himself to go by the nickname Wormtail, meaning that was the mysterious fourth person—

“Pettigrew,” Harry said. “He was your friend, too. The fourth writer of the Map. Mr. Wormtail.”

Theo stiffened. “Also an animagus, I take it?”

Hermione looked down at Crookshanks, then over at the bed. Where Neville was propped against the headboard, still aiming his trembling wand at Black, and keeping a vice grip on the rat.

Then Severus Snape burst through the door and disarmed everyone with one wordless spell.

 _Fantastic,_ Harry thought savagely.

“I’ve told the headmaster again and again that you were helping your old friend Black into the castle, Lupin, and here’s the proof at last,” Snape snarled. “Not even I dreamed you’d dare use this old place as your hideout—”

“Severus—” Lupin began.

“Two more for Azkaban tonight,” Snape said, eyes glittering.

Harry’s mind spun. If Black and Lupin were telling the truth—it would be simple, feed them Veritaserum, but he didn’t know if they were Occlumens—which left—could they prove the rat to be Pettigrew somehow?

“Professor Snape,” Harry said.

Snape didn’t even look at him. “Quiet, Potter.”

“How did you know how to get into the tunnel?” Harry said. “I assume Blaise told you where we’d gone?”

“You have loyal friends,” Snape said. “I had to threaten Mr. Zabini with a stunning spell before he agreed to return to the dormitories… And to answer your question, I know all _about_ this tunnel.” He sneered at Lupin. “Would you care to share the story?”

Lupin looked like he was breaking. “I—”

“No, go on,” Snape said. “Tell them what happened. Tell them about how two students conspired to murder a third on the grounds of Hogwarts and it was all covered up.”

Harry looked at Lupin, eyes hard. Theo and Neville and Hermione were staring at him, too. Judging.

He slumped. Lupin looked very little like a teacher now.

“We became animagi to help our old friend,” Black said harshly. Snape seemed to hate him even more than Lupin; the pure malevolence glowing in Snape’s eyes when he looked at Black was the most frightening part of this whole violent tableau. “We worked out in second year that he was a werewolf…”

“They let a werewolf come here?” Theo said incredulously.

“Technically it wasn’t legal to allow a bitten child into Hogwarts,” Lupin said heavily. “Dumbledore made an exception… I owe him my childhood, my education.” Theo’s lips twisted. Harry barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. “Once a month I was smuggled out of the castle to the Shrieking Shack, where I could transform in peace… the villagers thought it was haunted by violent spirits, a rumor Dumbledore encouraged. I could only make so many excuses before my friends caught on. And—to my shock—they didn’t turn their backs on me when they learned the truth—the opposite, really.”

“We started on the transformation in second year,” Black rasped. “And achieved it in fifth. We never registered ourselves… made it easy, you see, to creep out on full moon nights. Under our influence, Lupin’s wolf was… quieter. The four of us roamed Hogwarts’ grounds on those nights.”

“But… that was dangerous!” Hermione said. “What if you’d bitten someone!”

“A thought that haunts me to this day,” Lupin said heavily. “We were reckless, foolish…”

“And worse,” Snape cut in. “Get to the point.”

Lupin glared at him. “Patient as ever, I see, Severus… very well.” He was aging before Harry’s eyes. Harry tried not to enjoy it. Wondered how terrible the story was if it had this kind of effect on his supposed godfather. “One night… in our sixth year… Sirius played a trick on Severus that nearly killed him. Snape saw me crossing the grounds with Madam Pomfrey… Sirius thought it would be, er, amusing to tell Snape the secret of getting past the Willow. James heard what Sirius had done and went down the tunnel, too, and pulled Snape back at the last second—but he caught a glimpse of me. Dumbledore swore him to secrecy.”

Harry frowned. He didn’t see why this story weighed so heavily on Lupin. The werewolf curse was horrible, but it wasn’t _Lupin’s_ fault. If anything, Lupin ought to be furious with Black for using him like that.

“Professor?” Hermione said tentatively.

Both Lupin and Snape looked at her, and then glared at each other again.

“I’m as much a professor as you are, Severus, don’t give me that look,” Lupin said.

“Not hardly,” Harry sneered.

Lupin flinched slightly.

“ _What_ , Miss Granger,” Snape said testily.

“They—they seem to have—an idea that Peter Pettigrew is—s-still alive,” Hermione said. “P-please—can we just see—”

“They’ve lied to you, Miss Granger,” Snape spat. “Werewolves can’t be trusted and Black was capable of murder at the age of sixteen, are you really going to take his word for it? He’s easily deranged enough to kill his friend—”

“Sir, if you’ll just consider the timeline—” Harry tried—

“HE TRIED TO MURDER ME!” Snape howled, switching his wand from Lupin to Black. “I’ll see justice for it!”

“I WAS FORCED TO!” Black bellowed right back, and then he let out a groan of agony and doubled over, clutching his stomach. Dry heaves wracked his skinny frame. 

Everyone froze.

Lupin looked absolutely shocked. Snape was caught somewhere between suspicion, disbelief, and fury. Harry was just reeling; his friends looked to be in the same condition—this convoluted tangle of old hatreds and new information and buried secrets was too much—

“Explain,” Snape hissed.

Black slowly straightened up, still holding his stomach like he was in pain. “They made me,” he rasped. “Mulciber. Avery. Threatened… Regulus’ place in Slytherin. My little brother,” he added to the students. “We weren’t… close… I’d run away from home at that point… but he was family. They told me… to do my worst to you, Severus. And swear an oath on my wand never to speak of it to anyone. Thank Merlin none of them was strong enough to bind an Unbreakable…”

Snape, by this point, had joined Lupin in the “thunderstruck” camp. He seemed unable to speak, so Harry asked the obvious next question. “Why did they want Professor Snape dead?”

“I doubt they wanted him _dead_ ,” Black said, mouth twisting. “I got the distinct impression they were trying to make him hate us all so much he’d swear himself fully to the Death Eater cause… Mulciber, Avery, Rosier, they were already on board by that point…” He smirked. “They underestimated what ‘my worst’ would be. If James hadn’t interfered…”

“Your wand’s done now, then,” Snape said. His voice was devoid of emotion.

“It took me four hours in Ollivander’s to find,” Black said raggedly. “Something about the dissonance between me and my family, me and my nature… I wasn’t going to give it up, not when I might not find another.” He shrugged jerkily. “But between that and Azkaban, I’ll take losing the wand.”

“So you do have a modicum of sense in that disgusting head of yours,” Snape said, but there was a lot less vitriol in it this time. He seemed too shocked to be hateful. “If you weren’t the Secret Keeper, then—Pettigrew, as a diversion, I take it… in that case, how did he come to be dead? Or presumed dead.”

“I went to Godric’s Hollow,” Sirius said. “I found—found Harry and Jules in the rubble—their curse scars still glowing with energy—”

“Wait,” Harry said. “My scar is a curse scar, too?”

Black looked startled. “I would imagine so. I know what Dark magic feels like—my family and all. Yours was smaller… the curse rebounded, the Dark Lord died, and some of the energy touched you, too.”

Harry’s hand flew instinctively to his forehead. His scar was smaller than Jules’—it seemed to fit… he’d never understood where his scar came from… James had said falling rubble, but that never made sense to Harry…

“What then?” Lupin said.

Black took a breath. “Then—Hagrid came. I told him I was taking the boys to James. Hagrid said he had orders from Dumbledore to take them himself—that I wasn’t to be allowed near them. I should’ve seen it then…”

 _Seen what?_ Harry could feel an idea taking shape, a nasty one, and one he did not want to acknowledge.

“But I was furious, and grief-stricken—your mum was one of my best friends,” Black added to Harry. “As close as James by that point, maybe even closer… So I went after Peter. Not my best decision, I admit… I cornered him two days later. He yelled for the whole street to hear how I’d murdered Lily Potter, blew up the street with his wand behind his back, cut of his finger, and escaped into the drains with the other rats… by the time I woke up, the Aurors were on site.”

Theo stepped in again. “Professor Snape—their story makes some logical sense. Whoever betrayed the Potters did so mere days before they were killed, weeks after they went under the Fidelius. But the history books say Black was a traitor for years. Why would he have waited weeks to reveal the secret to the Dark Lord?”

“Some lingering loyalty to friendship if not his cause,” Snape said.

Theo was resolute. “Veritaserum, then.”

Snape looked at Black. “Occlumency?”

“I was taught from childhood,” Black said tightly. “Family policy.”

“It works against dementors, a bit,” Harry said. “That’s how you were able to survive Azkaban without going… well, _completely_ insane.”

Black coughed. “Yes, well. It helped that I could change shape. My feelings were less complicated as a dog. I could transform, curl up in the corner… between that and my Occlumency shields, I managed to retain a bit of my mind… it helped that remembering Peter’s betrayal was not a happy memory. The dementors couldn’t take it from me.”

“Why did you choose now to escape?” Snape demanded.

“The Minister,” Black said. He looked to be weakening before Harry’s eyes. “He came… last spring. Routine checkup. He had a paper, gave it to me. And there was a picture on the cover… the Weasleys and their brood… and sitting on the youngest son’s shoulder, Peter. I’d know him anywhere. I knew… he was perfectly placed at Hogwarts… ready to kill my godson and his twin if he heard so much of a whisper of the Dark Lord’s return.”

“You’re not Harry’s godfather anymore,” Lupin said. “James replaced you with me.”

“Oh,” Black said, “that makes _so_ much sense, set the man with no steady job and a once-a-month deadly curse up to take custody of a child—”

Lupin made an aborted movement in Black’s direction. Harry watched with interest. Cracks in the foundation of this friendship. And they went deeper than that little exchange.

“Trial scripts,” he said under his breath. “They weren’t lost, were they?”

“Trial scripts,” Black echoed angrily. “I never _had_ a trial. James stood up and told the Wizengamot how dangerous I’d become, Dumbledore pulled some strings, and they threw me straight into Azkaban.”

“Wait,” Harry said. He couldn’t believe this. Even of his father—

He couldn’t.

But there it was.

A hulking, ugly thought.

“If… if James testified…” Hermione said hesitantly. “He… you were _his_ Secret Keeper. So how would he not know… you didn’t betray them?”

“Clever girl,” Black said. His haunted, burning gaze slid to Lupin, who actually took a step back, even though Black was wandless and barely able to stand. “He knew. My best friend, my _brother_ , he knew I was innocent. And he helped lock me up anyway.”

There was an empty and bottomless pit laid bare in his voice and face, and Harry recognized it as a funhouse mirror reflection of a similar scar in his own psyche. Betrayal, of the kind that you can never forgive, from someone who never should’ve betrayed you.

James Potter had betrayed them both. His friend—no, _brother_ —and his son.

“No,” Lupin said. A flat denial.

“Yes,” Black sneered. “Your precious Dumbledore and your best friend James thought it’d be _for the greater good_ to get me out of the picture. Peter was dead; what did it matter if he was remembered as a hero or a villain? But me—”

“You were dangerous,” Lupin said. “Out of control. James told me… told me what he’d seen you do…”

“He saw me fight Death Eaters,” Black said. “Same as him. He saw me save his life time and time again. And because some of those spells I used to do it weren’t spells he _approved of_ , he thought I was going mad and locked me up.”

Harry thought his knees might actually give out. Too much. It was too much.

“If we can’t use Veritaserum on him, then is there a way to force an animagus back to human form?” Theo said.

Black looked at Snape. “There is a spell. It requires both casters to know the identity of the human wizard and recognize the animagus form.”

“You are not getting your wands back,” Snape said.

“Sir, give us ours,” Harry said. “If you wish to even the odds—we’re young, but if they try to escape we can slow them down for you.”

“And why should I trust your word?” Snape said.

Harry let his face get cold. “I’m not letting the betrayer of my family escape, sir. Whoever it is gets the blame for my _delightful_ childhood.”

Lupin looked away. Black opened his mouth, perhaps about to say something, but Snape cut him off.

“Very well.”

He separated the wands and tossed them back to their respective owners, saving Lupin and Black for last. Neville waved off his wand for Black to use again. “I’m useless anyway,” he said, teeth clenched. His entire body looked braced by pain. Harry nodded at Neville, trying his best to look encouraging. Hermione was gripping Neville’s hand very hard and aiming her wand at Lupin.

“Neville,” Lupin said. “The rat, please.”

Scabbers began to twist and squeak frantically when Neville dragged him out of his pocket by the tail. The rat jerked with surprising strength—tearing and pulling—Lupin grasped it firmly and held it out over the floor—

He and Black both pointed their wands at the rat. Two flashes of yellow-green light connected with its small body.

And then its body was not small any longer, but growing, twisting, warping unnaturally, and Harry stepped back, forgetting temporarily to pay attention to Black and Lupin—

It was over.

Crookshanks snarled viciously from his place at Hermione’s feet.

A scrawny, short man, with unhealthy skin and unkempt hair and something distinctly rodentlike in his demeanor slowly uncurled from the fetal position on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	11. Ugly Reality

Harry saw his own shock and horror mirrored in Snape’s and his friends’ faces.

“Hello, Peter,” Lupin said conversationally. “Long time, no see.”

Pettigrew’s eyes darted warily around. “R-Remus… S-Sirius… my old f-friends…”

“We’ve been having a chat about the night Lily died,” Lupin said. “You might’ve missed the finer points while you were hiding in Neville’s pocket—”

“Remus,” Pettigrew gasped, “He t-tried to kill me, Remus… you wouldn’t believe him, would you…?”

“We’d like to clear some things up with you, Pettigrew,” Snape said icily. “Or perhaps I should say _Wormtail._ ”

“S-Severus?” Pettigrew flinched back violently, having just noticed Snape. This wrenched him around so he would be in a position to take in the rest of the room. He shrank back when he saw three more wands pointed at him. “B-but…”

“Yes,” Snape said. “I am aware that there is no love lost between myself and your _old friends._ However…” He knelt, and jabbed his wand into Pettigrew’s throat. “I think we both know how… interested… I would be to learn that the one truly responsible for Lily Evans’ death has been walking free all these years,” he breathed.

Evans. Snape used Harry’s mum’s maiden name. Which—oh, Merlin, he’d been in school with them, hadn’t he? With James, Lupin, Black, and Pettigrew—but with Lily Evans, too.

Was some of the hate between Snape and James Potter over a _girl?_

“N-no…” Pettigrew said. “I was… hiding! From him!” He pointed at Black—with his middle finger, Harry saw, because the index was missing. “I knew—knew he’d come back to kill me—”

“You knew he’d escape Azkaban?” Theo said derisively. “When no one’s ever done it before?”

“We all saw him!” Pettigrew said shrilly. “Using Dark magic in his fights—”

“Gray magic, at worst,” Black said, but he was too weak to lie effectively. Lupin didn’t notice, but Snape definitely did, as well as Harry and Theo. Harry swapped a look with his best and oldest friend. How interesting. The Gryffindor golden boy’s best friend _had_ been resorting to Dark magic in the war—it wasn’t just James Potter’s fabrication.

James. Harry couldn’t even begin to imagine how much Black must hate James now. Probably as much or more than Harry did, actually.

Legally, Lupin was still Harry’s godfather—still the one who’d be granted custody if James was proven in court to be neglecting or unable to perform his parental duties. But if Black were proven innocent—

Harry set those plans aside to consider later.

“W-worse magic than you should even have known!” Pettigrew returned. He was a surprisingly good debater for someone who hadn’t held a conversation in twelve years. “The Dark Lord m-must have t-taught you all his tricks—enough to escape Azkaban—”

“Voldemort, teach me tricks?” Black said, laughing.

Pettigrew flinched.

Black advanced. He looked like he’d been shat out of hell and crawled his way back up to the earth, animated only by vengeance and hate. There was nothing kind or merciful in his expression. “Scared to hear your old master’s name, are you? You haven’t been hiding from _me_ for twelve years, _Peter_. You’ve been hiding from the Death Eaters. I heard them, you know. In Azkaban. Sleep-talking is common… it’s the dreams. Well, nightmares, really. Seems a lot of them think the double-crosser double-crossed _them_. Voldemort went to Godric’s Hollow that night thanks to _your_ information. And he died.” Harry wondered if and when and how they ought to tell Black that Voldemort wasn’t actually fully dead. Probably later. He was not exactly a paragon of mental stability at the moment. “They want your head for it… and plenty of them were never caught. Plenty of them are still running around, pretending they were coerced, or reformed… should they get wind you’re alive…”

“R-Remus… surely you don’t believe this, Remus…” Pettigrew turned to Lupin, but the werewolf stepped back.

“I admit, I have difficulty understanding why an innocent man would spend twelve years as a rat,” Lupin said mildly.

“Innocent, but scared!” Pettigrew said shrilly. “Of the spy, Sirius Black!”

Harry had to be impressed with the man’s ability to lie. Of course, his story had more holes than any of Harry’s old Dudley castoff clothes, but it was an impressive recovery after spending twelve years pretending to be an animal and talking to no one.

“How dare you call me a spy,” Black snarled. His wand hand rose, but he took a breath and jerked it back down. Probably he was worried if he had Pettigrew at wandpoint, he’d kill him. Harry’s wand had been at his side for the same reason for several minutes now. “I, spy for Voldemort? I would have died rather than betray my friends! Died rather than do what you did, or James! But I should’ve seen it sooner.” He shook his head in disgust. “You always liked having allies who were bigger and stronger—it used to be us.”

“Me… a spy… I never… out of your mind…” Pettigrew’s eyes were darting all around now, and the nervous shaking in his limbs was worse—

“They only made you Secret Keeper because I suggested it,” Black hissed, as venomously as Eriss. “I thought it was the perfect bluff. It was no secret you were clever but an ungifted wizard—of course everyone would assume Lily and James would make me the Secret Keeper, and leave you alone—it must have been the best moment of your life to tell Voldemort you could hand him the Potters.”

Pettigrew shrank back.

“But why—” Neville tried to lean forward and get a better look; he gasped in pain and cut off.

Snape murmured something and pointed his wand at Neville; Neville’s face slackened with relief as the pain clearly receded a bit. “Thank you,” he said. “Er—why wouldn’t Pettigrew just—k-kill Jules? He’s been in the same d-dormitory for three years… he’s been with the Weasleys for ages, and Jules spent half his time there as a kid…”

“There!” Pettigrew said, sitting upright again. “There—that’s it exactly—”

“I’ll tell you,” Black snarled. There was something of the dog in his voice. “Because you never did anything unless you saw what was in it for yourself. You weren’t about to commit murder under James Potter and Albus Dumbledore’s attention for a wreck of a wizard everyone says is dead. You chose a wizarding family close to the Potters—the son that was never around them, Percy Weasley, so James wouldn’t recognize you—keep your ear out for news, I take it… Too bad for you they plastered that family picture on the front page of the Prophet. And that the dementors can’t feel me easily as a dog—they hardly noticed when I slipped past them in my animagus form.”

“He saw me,” Harry said to everyone who’d missed that part of the conversation. “Last July, in Little Whinging. The night I ran away from the Dursleys.” He repeated the story for Lupin and Snape, who respectively looked astonished and furious. “He didn’t make a move to attack. Left me completely alone. I had my wand in its holster and I was sitting down right next to him. He could’ve torn my throat out if he wanted.”

Snape slowly drew himself to his full height.

Black grabbed the front of Pettigrew’s robes. “You sold Lily and James to Voldemort,” he said. “Do you deny it?”

Pettigrew’s eyes filled with tears. To Harry, they looked fake. “Sirius… Sirius… what could I have done? The Dark Lord… you have no idea… he has power like you can’t imagine… I was so scared, I was never brave like you and Remus…” _Oh, flattery, nice touch._ “I never meant it to happen… the Dark Lord forced me…”

“DON’T LIE,” Black bellowed. “You fed him information for almost two years before Lily died! You were his spy!”

“He—he was taking over everywhere!” Pettigrew gasped. “There was no sense resisting…”

“No sense,” Black repeated. “No _sense_ —except saving lives!”

Saving lives. Harry realized very suddenly that he’d never actually heard numbers from the last war. He’d have to look up casualty lists at some point.

“You don’t understand,” Pettigrew said, silent tears running over his sallow skin. “I had no choice…”

“There is always a choice,” Black said, raising his wand. “And this one is mine to make—I’ve waited so long for this—”

“No.” Harry stepped between him and Pettigrew.

Pettigrew clutched at Harry’s robes. “S-so kind… s-so good… I knew… you wouldn’t let them h-hurt me, Harry…”

Harry hit him with a Bludgeoning Curse that threw Pettigrew back across the floor, moaning and clutching a shattered elbow. “I don’t give a shit about you,” he snarled, and turned back to Black. Lupin was staring at Harry in shock and not a little horror. Snape remained impassive. “We need him alive to prove your innocence,” Harry told Black. _And I need you innocent, so I can get out of the Dursleys’ custody, and out of James and Lupin’s._

“They don’t accept Pensieve memories from minors in court,” Neville got out. “But they would take Professor Snape’s, and Professor Lupin’s…” He collapsed back on the bed.

Theo finished his analysis, smirking in satisfaction. “We have a confession in memory form. Two copies, actually. The Ministry Unspeakables will confirm no tampering.”

Snape was gripping his wand very tightly. He looked like Eriss when she was coiled and ready to spring.

 _“Stupefy,”_ he whispered, pointing his wand. A jet of red light shot from the end and hit Pettigrew full in the face. He slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Theo was only a step away. He moved forward, shifted his weight, and ground his heel straight down, breaking Pettigrew’s nose with a _crack_. Blood sprayed. Lupin made an aborted movement.

“Theo,” Harry said.

“What?” Theo said, unrepentant. “He deserved that.”

Snape looked slightly amused. “Regardless, it was ill-mannered… Mr. Longbottom, I shall need to set and splint your leg before moving you. It is likely to be quite painful. I can render you unconscious for the process and the transportation back to the castle if you choose.”

Neville glanced uncertainly at Harry.

“Dealing with pain to act tough is foolish, not brave,” Harry said firmly.

“All right,” Neville whispered, closing his eyes.

One minute later, he was floating on a conjured stretcher, currently being levitated by Lupin, who led the way out of the room with Neville floating in front of him.

 _“Levicorpus_ ,” Snape said, pointing his wand at Pettigrew. He drifted slowly up into the air and hung limply at wandpoint. Snape followed Lupin.

Harry noticed Black staring at him rather intently and deliberately hung back. Theo caught on and pulled Hermione out of the room next.

“Lupin’s got good hearing,” Black said hoarsely as they followed the group. “Just wanted to make sure… Harry, I have a sense—but I need to make sure… can you tell me… about your life? Up until now?”

Harry examined him. He knew almost nothing about this man—except that he’d been a Gryffindor willing to resort to Dark magic to get the job done, he hated James Potter and Peter Pettigrew, he was intelligent and not a good liar, he was fiercely loyal. The scorned heir of the Black family, thrown in prison on false charges by Dumbledore for supposedly turning Dark. A child from an abusive home who had no doubt latched onto the Potters like a barnacle when they showed him love and affection. The man was a walking contradiction wrapped in irony and desperation.

Actually, Harry knew rather a lot about him, all things considered. Enough to believe he’d be a better guardian than James Potter or Remus Lupin or the Dursleys—enough to believe Black would fight James in court if he had to. Which he would, because legally Lupin was Harry’s godfather and next in line for custody. Harry already had some ideas about how to solve this problem, but he’d be speaking to his friends and a lawyer before he made a move.

“Yes,” he said, just as quietly. “I didn’t… have a good childhood, to start with. As you might’ve noticed. The Dursleys… that night you saw me in Little Whinging?”

Black nodded.

Harry gave him a bare-bones account of the abuse he’d received, and the horrors that were the human beings named Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley. Then he switched to his introduction to the wizarding world, his Sorting—Black’s eyes flickered down to Harry’s Slytherin tie as if noticing it for the first time—and the events of the last three years, including his ongoing drama with James and Jules, and the disaster with the Chamber of Secrets, Quidditch matches, fights in Potter Manor and at the Burrow, being rescued from the Dursleys before second year, escaping and his determination not to go back before third—

He stopped. “The Firebolt,” Harry said. They had to be nearing the end to the tunnel back to school by this point. “You sent it. Didn’t you?”

“I did,” Black said, with a hesitantly hopeful smile. “D’you like it?”

“Like it?” Harry repeated. “It’s incredible. Just—how did you _afford_ it?”

Black glanced up the tunnel at the bobbing light Hermione had cast to light the way. “Harry, I’m the Lord of House Black. Not officially, according to the Ministry—but the goblins are neutral. I walked into Gringotts under a glamour charm cast with a stolen wand, asked for a private room, and went from there. The Blacks have been saving money for centuries. Our vaults have enough in them to buy a thousand Firebolts.”

“Oh,” Harry said intelligently. “Well… thanks.”

Black looked about as comfortable as Harry felt, which was _not_. “Yes, well. Consider it thirteen years’ worth of birthday and Christmas presents I should’ve been there for. Speaking of which…” He took a deep breath and seemed unable to meet Harry’s eyes. “I… have failed my task as your godfather. James—” his face twisted as if the name had a foul taste— “may have changed it to Remus, legally, but it was originally me. James has clearly been negligent as a father… if you want… I mean to say—you could live with me.”

 _Yes. Please._ “I appreciate the offer,” Harry said. “But it’ll be difficult. Legally. Dumbledore—I think he wanted me under his thumb, easily controllable. So, the Dursleys. And it’ll be a _horrendous_ blow to his image when it comes out he had an innocent man knowingly imprisoned. He’s got allies in the Wizengamot; they’ll fight the reassignment of custody from James to Remus, and then we have to find some kind of argument to make it you instead… I’m thinking we can point to Remus’ lack of a steady job and his absence in my childhood as indicators of his negligence and unsuitability for the job…”

Black was staring at him. “I am starting to see why you were Sorted into Slytherin.”

“Which reminds me,” Harry said. “Is my House going to be a problem? Reportedly, you don’t like Slytherins much.”

“I don’t have… great experiences with them,” Black said reluctantly. “As a whole. But no, it’s not going to be a problem.”

“Then we have an arrangement, Lord Black,” Harry said.

Black winced. “No, it’s Sirius. Please.”

Harry considered this. “Okay… then please call me Harry.”

“Gladly,” Black—Sirius—no, Harry was going to stick to Black in his head for a while; this all felt too strange—said.

Up ahead, Snape was climbing out of the passage on Lupin’s heels. Hermione gave Theo a boost with a Levitation Charm and then Harry gave her one, and then he and Theo turned and cast the charm on Black together to lift him out from under the Whomping Willow.

They reassembled and started across the grass.

The group had only gone maybe twenty paces when the clouds crept away from the moon.

Harry didn’t notice at first, except that it had gotten a bit easier to not trip—

But then he caught Black’s horrified gasp, and heard a thud, and looked up.

Lupin’s wand had fallen from his hand, and Neville had landed on the ground.

Because Lupin was changing.

“Run,” Black said.

Harry couldn’t. Not with Neville there. Not with Pettigrew out here. Pettigrew _could not die._

Lupin, half-changed, lunged at Snape—threw him backwards onto the ground. Snape’s head hit a rock with a _crack_ , and Pettigrew slumped to the ground.

“Banish it!” Harry said. He snapped out his wand and cast the Banishing Charm, which was above his year level and not normally something he would’ve revealed knowing how to do in front of his professors, but he was past caring. Theo and Hermione followed suit. Their combined spells slammed into the half-transformed werewolf and hurled him nearly fifty meters, where he slammed into the ground.

 _“Go,”_ Black said, and then he transformed, too—it looked a lot less painful than the werewolf transformation—the vicious black dog tore off after Lupin’s writhing form—

Harry quickly Transfigured Neville’s stretcher to be three times its size and used wandless magic to float Pettigrew and Snape on top of it.

 _“Wingardium Leviosa,_ ” Hermione said clearly. She was the best at charms like this one. The stretcher floated in front of her as she ran for the castle, holding her wand out to maintain the spell. Harry and Theo followed. 

A yelp and a snarl came from behind.

Harry looked over his shoulder—

And yelled as Theo tackled him aside, just as the werewolf shot through the space Harry had just occupied—

It slammed to the ground and whirled, snarling at them.

Black came out of nowhere and skidded into place with his back to Harry and Theo, snarling right back.

Hermione hesitated.

“Go!” Harry shouted. “Get them inside—Hermione, go _on_ —we’ve got Black—”

Hermione nodded, suddenly grim-faced, and took off running again.

The wolf started to turn.

“Hey!” Theo shouted, waving his arms.

It focused back on them with renewed anger and began to advance.

Black growled angrily.

The wolf lunged.

As the dog and the wolf descended into a vicious tangle, Harry and Theo took off running. “Tree,” Theo gasped out, “climb,” and Harry took his meaning and veered towards where the forest met the edge of the Black Lake, where the trees were tall and sturdy—it was closer than the castle—if they could just get up high enough—

The wolf howled behind them, high and angry, and there was the sound of thrumming paws—

Harry and Theo dodged apart. The wolf missed both of them and turned around. Harry glanced behind him—Black was limping, trying to reach them, but there was no way he’d make it in time.

To hell with it. Harry aimed. _“Os fractus,”_ he hissed, a curse he’d never had a chance to try, a curse restricted to Healers for certain medical procedures—

Just as Theo cast something Harry didn’t recognize—

Harry’s spell landed in the wolf’s ribcage, hurling it back with a whine of pain. It struggled to its feet. Disoriented. In pain. At least he hadn’t broken Lupin’s spine, only his ribs. Probably. Maybe the left shoulder blade, too, judging by the limp—

The wolf turned and bolted into the woods.

Theo and Harry stood up, panting and wincing.

Black transformed back to human. “That was… some clever spellwork,” he said, eyeing them both. “Not many third years could survive an encounter with a werewolf.”

“We wouldn’t have, if not for you,” Harry said.

“The Blinding Curse?” Black asked Theo.

Theo shrugged. “If it can’t see, it’ll have a hard time killing you.”

Harry thought of the basilisk and made a note to tell Theo that theory failed if you were talking about things with heightened senses of smell.

“Fair,” Black said. “Still. I wouldn’t advertise that you even know of that kind of magic.”

“Will he recover?” Theo said. “I don’t know if I did it right—I’m pretty sure he could still see—”

“I’m reassured to hear you haven’t been practicing that curse at your age,” Black said drily. “He should be fine. You probably didn’t cast it fully—you’re too young to manage Dark curses like that one. And werewolves are extremely resistant to magic. Harry, you probably fractured at least a couple ribs. He’ll heal by morning but he’ll be extremely sore.”

Harry frowned. “Will he remember?”

Black shook his head. “I doubt it. He never came out of the transformations with more than half-formed memories. Those wounds could easily have come from fighting me.”

This was a relief. It was also a relief that Black did not appear overly concerned with the fact that Harry and Theo had both just cast Dark curses on the grounds of Hogwarts.

He frowned, and then rubbed his arms. “Does it seem a bit… cold…”

Harry looked up. “Oh shit,” he said.

“Merlin help us,” Theo rasped.

At least a dozen dementors were approaching from all sides. Attention fixed on Black.

Harry turned to his godfather—

Black collapsed.

Harry supposed he had some pretty horrific memories stored in his head, and was too weak for his Occlumency to do much good. Harry certainly felt the same. His shields were already buckling under the weight of the gibbering despair and hopelessness that approached—all his happy memories were slithering, dripping away…

He realized he’d gone to his knees, wand in his hand… Theo was in the same position a few feet away, staring dully back…

And then there was Black, curled on the ground, moaning, “Noooo… noo… please…”

 _I should help him_ , Harry thought vaguely.

_“Harry! Harry!”_

With an effort, Harry turned his head and looked down. Ah. Eriss. Familiar.

The snake coiled up his leg, shouting as loud as she could… Harry couldn’t bring himself to care what she was saying… the dementors were getting closer, he noticed vaguely, very close now, one was leaning over Black, another had a hand on Theo’s shoulder…

A sudden stabbing pain in his leg brought him out of it just a bit.

Just enough.

Harry fought past the despair, focused all his mental strength on clearing just one tiny corner of his mind—just enough for him to realize he had to cast a Patronus and he had to do it _now_.

The dementor leaned down towards Black. In a second, it would Kiss him, and Harry’s best hope for escape would be gone.

The pain was spreading up Harry’s leg and down it, burning like cold fire. He clung to it and it was not a pleasant feeling, the dementors couldn’t take it from him… Nor could they steal the memories of the Dursleys’ abuse, of what Harry needed to escape from… they couldn’t make him want that any less.

They couldn’t make him want to protect his friend and his godfather any less.

 _“Expecto patronum!”_ he shouted.

A huge silver shape burst from the end of his wand.

The crippling cold receded just a bit. The silver shape lunged forward—the dementor on top of Sirius fell back, then the one that had been pulling Theo into position—then the three that had been coming for Harry—his Patronus loped around the three of them in circles, chasing the dementors away—

One by one, the foul creatures retreated into the night.

His Patronus stopped and paced slowly back towards him. Harry barely had time to take in the general shape of it before his strength and concentration failed him and it winked out of sight.

Harry fell forward and barely caught himself with one hand.

 _“Harry!”_ Eriss said, nearly frantic.

With the dementors gone, Harry managed to regain enough conscious control over his body, enough of his Occlumency shields, to simultaneously shove the dementor influence off somewhat and realize the burning in his leg was spreading. Up his stomach now.

_“Erisssss…”_

_“I had to,_ ” the snake said, sounding frantic. _“I had to wake you up—you made the potion that counteracts my venom, remember? In your bag—always on you—”_

She was right. The antivenin. Harry needed his antivenin.

He reached for his bag. His fingers were clumsy sausages. They slid right off the buckle. Once, twice, three times.

“Theo,” he choked out, and managed to crawl over the ground to his friend’s body and shake him hard. “Theo… come on, wake up—Theo…”

Theo stirred. Moaned.

“Theo. Please. Wake up.”

Theo blinked his eyes open and stared blearily at Harry. “Hrrr… wasss… gon’ on?”

“Antivenin,” Harry said. “Bag.”

Then he passed out.

 

_I am becoming distressingly familiar with the sensation of waking up in the hospital wing._

“Welcome back, Mr. Potter.” Madam Pomfrey’s voice. Harry blinked his eyes open and found that they’d left him with his glasses on again, thank Merlin. “How are you feeling?”

“Bit like a tractor ran me over,” Harry croaked. He focused on her face, registered her confusion, and grimaced. “Er—sorry. Muggle thing. Big heavy rolling metal piece of farm equipment. How long…”

“Ah,” she said. “Well, that’s somewhat to be expected. You _did_ fight a werewolf. And by Mr. Nott’s report, you both got tossed around a bit. Although I believe it is the aftereffects of the dementors that caused you to lose consciousness. This all happened last night. It is four p.m. on Friday.”

Harry managed to corral his scattered thoughts into some kind of order. “Right,” he said, relieved she hadn’t noticed the snake bite or the antivenin in his system. Pomfrey was a nurse, not a full Healer. She probably hadn’t wasted time on comprehensive diagnostic spells. It was also good to know he hadn’t lost more than a day.

With an effort, he turned his head.

Theo was in the bed next to him, sitting up and holding half a bar of chocolate. “Glad you’re up,” he said quietly.

Harry grinned weakly at him. “Yeah, me, too.”

Then he looked past Theo and his eyes widened.

Black was lying on a bed two down from Theo, restrained.

“No,” Harry said, struggling to sit up. “He’s innocent—find Hermione and Snape, they were there—”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Potter.”

Harry obeyed that voice without thinking, clearing his mind and shutting his mouth. He looked around. Snape was standing by a hospital bed across the room, devoid for once of his usual billowing cloak and looking very annoyed about it. “Mr. Black is restrained only as a matter of procedure,” Snape said. “I believe several law enforcement officials are on their way for a meeting, including Andromeda Tonks, Madame Bones, head of the DMLE, Minister Fudge, and Albus Dumbledore. Of course, Lords Potter and Nott are coming as well, and I fully expect Remus Lupin to insist upon being here…”

Madam Pomfrey looked furious. “This is an infirmary, not a courtroom! My patients need rest!”

“This issue unfortunately needs to be cleared up as soon as possible,” Snape said.

“I’m all right,” Harry said. He’d managed to get into an upright position and made an effort to flatten his hair.

Pomfrey stuffed some chocolate into his hand and bustled over to check on the still sleeping Neville, muttering about batty Headmasters. Snape’s lips twitched.

“Sir,” Harry said, “if Dumbledore put an innocent man in Azkaban—”

“I cannot begin to predict the consequences,” Snape said, voice low. Pomfrey appeared not to notice. “But they will almost certainly include him losing his positions Chief Warlock and Supreme Mugwump, possibly also the revocation of his Order of Merlin.”

“Not—anything else?” Theo said.

Snape’s mouth thinned much like Professor McGonagall’s did when she was angry. “Do not underestimate the amount of power Albus Dumbledore wields, Mr. Nott,” he said softly. “Many have made that mistake, and their lives have been the worse for it.”

With that enigmatic warning, he swept out of the room, managing to achieve nearly the same effect he usually got even without the cloak.

Harry closed his eyes and worked on his Occlumency, peeling back the lingering effects of the dementors while absently eating his chocolate. The chocolate helped dispel the cold from his limbs but the mental bits were much more thoroughly fixed by Occlumency than the candy. At its core, Occlumency was nothing more than knowing one’s own mind well enough to detect what is native to it and what is foreign—what belonged to him and what didn’t. Dementors were insidious, but they were also distinctly not human, which made their effects easier to detect in the aftermath than those of a human Legilimens. At least, according to Harry’s reading. He was fairly certain neither Snape nor Dumbledore had ever tried active Legilimency on him before. Passive, he couldn’t rule out completely, but he did think it unlikely.

Wary of eavesdroppers, he had to pause and plan his question. “Where’s my bag?” he asked Theo, pointedly and subtly resting a hand over the still-aching snake bite on his thigh.

“Safe,” Theo said, raising an eyebrow. “Blaise got it and took it down to the common room.”

So Eriss was safely out of the way. Harry could’ve used the comfort her presence brought, but he knew it was too risky having his snake familiar in a room with his father, several Ministry officials including the Minister himself, and Dumbledore.

“Is he awake?” Harry said, nodding at Black.

Theo glanced over his shoulder. “No. Magically sedated. Also, you may want to try a hair charm before they get here. It’s worse than your brother’s.”

Harry winced and found his wand waiting on the table by his bed. Three hastily applied hair charms later, Theo shrugged and deemed it as good as it was going to get, and then they heard voices outside the door.

They exchanged a glance and made sure to be sitting on the edges of their beds by the time the footsteps arrived at the hospital wing. Neither of them wanted to look like an invalid.

  Dumbledore was the first in the door. The benign twinkle was gone from his eyes; Harry was forcibly reminded that this was the man who had defeated Gellert Grindelwald and outmaneuvered Voldemort, even if temporarily.

Behind him was Snape, walking along with icy indifference to the way James Potter was breathing down his neck with rage. Lupin trailed James, looking massively uncomfortable. Then Minister Fudge, two women who Harry assumed were Madam Bones and Madam Tonks, and finally a powerfully built man of average height, with silver hair and something of Theo’s sharpness in his expression, wearing the finest robes and walking with utter confidence. Lord Nott, then. And then, behind him, Professor McGonagall. Harry supposed he should’ve expected that. Neville was one of her students and Black had been, once.

Madam Pomfrey drew herself up, puffing out in rage. “Is this a hospital wing or not!” she shouted.

“Poppy, please,” Dumbledore said. “We do need a word with these students as soon as possible.”

“We’ve eaten our chocolate,” Harry assured her, and did his best to maintain his perfect composure as he slid off his bed and stood facing the adults. Theo followed suit, stepping up to Harry’s shoulder.

“We can handle it,” Theo added. “The headmaster is right, this needs to be cleared up.”

“Very _well_ ,” Pomfrey said angrily. “I shall be in my office.”

She stalked away, but no one paid her much attention.

Fudge was looking anxiously between the bed holding Black, Harry, Theo, Madam Bones, and Dumbledore. James was an odd combination of sick and furious—Harry was inclined to believe Black that James knew, then. Snape and the woman Harry thought was Andromeda Tonks were impassive. And Dumbledore—Dumbledore was just angry.

“Harry, my boy,” Fudge said uneasily. “If you would—we do need to see if your version of events matches that of Severus and the Granger girl… And of course, there are some things only you two were privy to…”

“Of course, Minister,” Harry said, and started in on the story, keeping his tone even and his tale factual and concise. Theo jumped in at a few points to fill in a detail Harry had forgotten.

He finished with, “The last thing I remember was the dementors leaving.”

“I woke up about the time Harry passed out from core strain,” Theo added, referencing the phenomenon of a young wizard casting a spell he or she wouldn’t normally be capable of due to great stress, which usually resulted in the equivalent of horrible muscle soreness for several days, except without the benefit of getting stronger. It was an excellent cover for deadly snake venom. “I put a mild glamor charm on Black and levitated him and Harry up here.”

“I don’t understand how the dementors were driven away,” Madam Bones said. Her voice was firm and strong—she seemed like the sort of person who tended to get what she wanted, one way or another. Tall and fit-looking, she was going gray at the temples and wore conservative robes of deep wine purple. The Wizengamot color.

“I cast a Patronus, Madam,” Harry said.

The adults all gaped at him. Even Dumbledore slipped up and showed his surprise.

“My boy,” Fudge said with an unsettled laugh. “The Patronus Charm is magic of the most advanced—”

Harry twirled his wand around his fingers. _“Expecto patronum.”_

The spell took more out of him than he’d have liked, but it worked. The silver animal sprang forth and landed on the floor of the hospital wing to a chorus of shock.

Harry got a good look at his Patronus for the first time. A wolf, and a big one—it stood as tall at the shoulder as Harry’s waist. Its head was angular and its jaws clearly powerful; cunning eyes peered out at them all. It paced a quick circle before sitting down at Harry’s feet.

“A third year,” McGonagall breathed. James, to Harry’s internal delight, looked sick.

“But—how?” Bones said.

“I have a lot of rather nasty memories for the dementors to draw on,” Harry said, glancing deliberately at James. “They affected me worse than my peers, and I set myself to learning the Patronus Charm. This evening actually marks the first time I managed a corporeal one rather than a simple shield.”

“Simple,” McGonagall said. _“Simple_ —Mr. Potter, most adult wizards have great difficulty learning this spell—I find it difficult to believe you did it all on your own—”

Harry shrugged. “I was motivated.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, Harry, what memory did you use?” Lupin said.

Harry met his eyes coldly. “I believe I’ve asked you to call me Mr. Potter, Professor. And I don’t have any memories happy enough to overcome the dementors’ effects and power the spell. I can cast it because I was stubborn enough to keep practicing without the framing crutch.”

They were all floored.

He basked in their shock for fully half a minute before Lupin rallied. “Very impressive, I must say,” he said. “Jules is—quite close to accomplishing a corporeal Patronus—he can manage a shield, much like yours—”

“How long has he been working with you, again?” Theo asked innocently.

Harry had to bite back a snort at the look of outright fury on James’ and Dumbledore’s faces.

“Well,” Madam Bones said. “Your testimony aligns perfectly with that provided by Professor Snape and Miss Granger—and the mere fact of Pettigrew’s death being faked is strong evidence. Not to mention the fact that the ‘trial scripts’ for Sirius Black have all mysteriously vanished from the Ministry archives, which smacks of a cover-up to me. Minister?”

“Yes—quite,” Fudge blustered. “Only—only one thing to do, then—no choice about it…”

Bones rounded on Dumbledore. Was that a bit of satisfaction in her eyes? “Albus Dumbledore, as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I hereby suspend you indefinitely from the Wizengamot pending a full investigation into your actions regarding Sirius Black. I also declare Sirius Black cleared of all charges on the grounds of Pettigrew’s confession, recorded and reviewed in Pensieve form by two adult wizards in good standing with the law, as well as the _many_ glaring inconsistencies that have been brought to my attention regarding this case.” She waved her wand and Black’s restraints vanished. “Dumbledore, we’ll need to speak in your office. Minister?”

Fudge twitched. “Oh—yes—and you’ll be losing your Order of Merlin,” he said, rather angrily. Harry suspected he’d be overjoyed as soon as the shock wore off. It was no secret that Fudge feared Dumbledore would try to take the Minister position away from him. He’d relish an opportunity to knock Dumbledore down a few pegs.

So nice when Dumbledore’s other enemies could be worked into doing Harry’s work for him.

“You will regret this, Fudge,” Dumbledore said coldly.

“No,” Fudge said, “no, I don’t think I will… Your office.”

Dumbledore swept out of the hospital wing. Madam Bones and Minister Fudge went after him.

As the doors closed behind them, Lord Nott stepped forward, laying a hand on Theo’s shoulder. “You are all right?” he said, impassive.

“I’m fine, Father.” Theo, likewise, showed no visible affection. Lord Nott nodded—and now Harry saw the warmth and concern lurking in his eyes. But only because he was standing right next to Theo.

Lord Nott turned to Harry next. “By all reports, you have been a good friend to my son, and tonight you have saved him from a fate many consider worse than death. House Nott offers you its gratitude and friendship, Mr. Potter.”

Harry knew his high society manners after three years of watching the Slytherins put on airs, and he simply nodded, taking the gratitude as his due.

James glared at Lord Nott, and then rounded on Harry and Theo. “What are you playing at!”

Harry shrank back a bit before he caught himself. Yelling men—it wasn’t the easiest situation for him.

“You will refrain from threatening my son, Lord Potter,” Nott said. 

“We’re not playing at anything,” Theo said with a sneer worthy of Snape. “You know, Black said _you_ knew about it as well. I don’t see how you couldn’t have. It was your secret he was keeping.”

“You will drag our family’s name through the mud,” James snarled, glaring at Harry.

“See, that’s the thing,” Harry said. “Since you seem to have forgotten this the second I was Sorted—I’m _also_ named Potter. So it won’t be our family name getting dragged through the mud. Just yours.”

James opened his mouth.

“James Potter, that is _enough!_ ” McGonagall shrieked.

James flinched back, and then turned to stare at her, eyes wide.

Black chose that moment to cough and come awake. His attention went straight to Harry. “Harry—you’re all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry said. “Core overload. Patronus.”

Black’s eyes widened. “You cast a Patronus?”

“He saved all three of us from the dementors,” Theo confirmed.

“He shouldn’t even have been practicing that kind of magic on his own,” James said through gritted teeth.

“Clearly, I should have,” Harry said lazily.

James unsubtly bit his tongue.

Black finally turned his attention to the rest of the room. “Oh, look, ‘Dromeda. Long time no see. Were you in on this? And Lord Nott. I believe we were trying to kill each other last time we met.”

“I was Imperiused,” Lord Nott said smoothly.

“Uh-huh,” Black said. “Professor McGonagall, you’re looking well…”

“Thank you, Sirius,” McGonagall said crisply. “I must say, it is an enormous pleasure to learn of your innocence—my sincerest condolences for your experiences—”

Black waved this away. “It was hardly your fault… Snape.”

Snape nodded curtly.

“You’re a lot saner than I expected,” Lord Nott said, eyeing Black.

Black smiled grimly. “I knew I was innocent. It wasn’t a happy memory. The monsters couldn’t take it.”

Lord Nott nodded slowly.

“Father,” Theo said. “He saved me from the werewolf, as well.”

Lupin flinched.

“Yes,” Lord Nott agreed. “Forgive me the lapse. Lord Black, I extend to you the same courtesy I did Heir Potter. House Nott offers you gratitude and friendship.”

Black looked a bit startled, but he managed to nod. “I accept.”

James stepped between Harry and Lord Nott, his back to the other Lord. “Harry, I want you to stay away from this boy—”

“He is my _friend_ ,” Harry said icily.

James crossed his arms. “He is a bad influence.”

“Watch your tongue,” Lord Nott said, even colder this time. “You do not wish to start a feud with my family.”

“I already have a feud with your family,” James hissed, rounding on him. Lord Nott’s hand was drifting near his wand. “ _Death Eater._ As if I’d be happy letting my son associate with you—”

Harry smirked at James. “Excuse me, James? You’ve slipped up again… you’re not my guardian. You can’t do anything. It’s legally Vernon and Petunia, remember? The magic-hating abusive disasters of human beings who managed to butcher my childhood by the time I was four?” 

“Oh, honestly, Harry,” James said irritably. “You need to stop exaggerating this story. It wasn’t _that_ bad.”

For a full second, all Harry could do was stare at him, left speechless by the sheer _audacity_. Snape, Theo, and McGonagall seemed to be in similar states. Even Lord Nott’s air of amusement gave way to surprise.

It was all Harry could do not to hurl every curse in his arsenal at his father.

“How _dare_ you,” Black said, fighting to his feet. He swayed next to his bed, looking like a perambulating corpse—indoor lighting was even worse on his sickly skin. “How dare—”

“Sirius,” Tonks said. “Sit down, we can talk about this.”

“Don’t tell me you’re defending him, ‘Dromeda?” Black said incredulously.

Tonks folded her hands in front of her. “We all saw you in the last year of the war, Sirius. We all saw you resorting to questionable magic—”

“I did what I had to,” Black said. “To protect the only family I had left. Lily. James. Peter. Remus. You, ‘Dromeda. Except turns out you weren’t actually family, because _family doesn’t do what you did to me!”_ He pointed angrily at Tonks, Lupin, James. Harry was suddenly glad they’d taken Neville’s wand back. “I would have _died_ for you! All of you! And done it gladly!”

“You were dangerous,” Tonks said. “Out of control.”

“I was perfectly in control,” Black said. “Just not _Dumbledore’s_ control.”

“I won’t hear you speak about Albus like that,” James said, drawing his wand threateningly. “He is a great man and my friend—”

“Oh, perfect, both the little backstabbers in one fucking basket,” Black snarled.

Lord Nott, standing out of everyone’s line of sight except Harry, Theo, and Black, smiled fleetingly.

McGonagall looked shocked. “Sirius!”

“Apologies, Professor.” Black didn’t look very sorry. There was practically a live wire of hate vibrating between him and his once-time best friend.

Harry watched it all with fascination and not a little delight. Snape, too, seemed barely able to contain his glee as the Marauders fell apart at last. Harry wasn’t sure what the exact nature of their relationship in school had been—but clearly, it wasn’t good.

“These boys need rest,” McGonagall declared angrily. “Poppy was right on that count. James—Sirius—Remus—you can work out your differences _later_.”

“I have been solicited to perform a Legilimency examination on Mr. Black to ensure his mental stability,” Snape interjected silkily.

Theo caught Harry’s eye. They both knew what each other was thinking—amusement about Snape’s sense of dramatic timing—and Harry had to look away quickly to avoid laughing.

“You won’t go near him, Snivellus!” James shouted.

“Oh, _now_ he cares about Black’s welfare,” Theo muttered. Harry smirked.

McGonagall stepped in between them and squared off with James, who—shockingly—backed up a step. “If I hear you speak that abominable nickname _one more time_ , I will hex you and damn the consequences!” she hissed. “And you will not like where I aim!”

James paled.

 _Merlin_ , Harry thought. _I see why the Gryffindors are all so terrified of her._

“Sirius, only if it’s all right with you,” McGonagall said, stepping away once she determined James had been thoroughly cowed. “I understand there’s no love lost between you—”

“It’s acceptable,” Black said, glaring at Snape. There was hatred in his expression still, but also an olive branch.

 _The enemy of my enemy is my friend._ Harry had predicted this during that endless walk in the tunnel back up to the castle, and he was still surprised.

Even Snape looked taken aback for a half second before he covered it up. “How shocking,” he said, stepping over to Black’s hospital bed. “You seem to have sprouted some common sense while you were… compromised.”

“Don’t be tempted to root around where you shouldn’t. I’m an Occlumens,” Black said flatly. James opened his mouth. McGonagall glared, and he shut it again. “In case you’d forgotten.”

“As if I could forget,” Snape said. “By all rights you should be a gibbering mess right now… _Legilimens.”_

“I can’t believe this,” James hissed. McGonagall, supervising the Legilimency examination, didn’t hear. “He’s letting _Snivellus_ in his head—”

“He hates us that much now,” Lupin responded, sounding miserable.

James crossed his arms. “He’ll have to get over it.”

 _Get over it?_ Harry stared at his father and decided the only explanation was that James Potter didn’t know what it was to hate. Not truly. Not if he thought Black could just _get over it._

“We need Dumbledore,” James continued. “You-Know-Who will be back, and there’s no one else who can hold him off until… until Jules comes into his powers. No one else who can guide Jules and the rest of us.”

Harry wanted to laugh at the idea of Jules being some kind of Chosen One hero. A mediocre wizard, one who wasted his time lazing about with his friends and rarely studied, rarely _tried_ —drunk on fame and getting more so every year—

As if.

Snape lowered his wand and backed up a step. “As stable as can be expected, given the… _unfortunate_ circumstances,” he sneered. Clearly they weren’t going to be able to put all their bad history away that quickly. “

Black heaved a breath and blinked hard, wincing slightly. But he didn’t explode. Harry took that to mean Snape hadn’t dug around in corners of Black’s mind that he shouldn’t.

Madam Pomfrey reappeared, looking absolutely irate. “This has gone on long enough. Severus, I’ll need more Restorative Draught by morning. Possibly Skele-Gro; that was a nasty break Mr. Longbottom had. And a write-up if you’ve done the mental examination yet.”

“Of course,” Snape said. “Mr. Potter, Mr. Nott—I believe your friends will be around to visit in the morning. Good evening, Lord Nott, Minerva.”

He left, completely ignoring Tonks, James, and Lupin.

Pomfrey started bustling the adults out of the room.

“I cannot believe him,” James said, lingering. “How you can put up with him as your Head, Harry…”

“You know what’s funny?” Harry said, quietly, but with force. He dropped the damper on his eyes completely and glared at his father. “He’s treated me better than you have.”

James’ face flushed, but he turned on his heel and caught up to Lupin before he exploded.

Harry waited until they were all out of the room before he collapsed on his bed and put his head in his hands.

Someone sat down on his right. Theo. And then… someone else to his left.

Harry lifted his head and found Sirius Black sitting by him, looking extremely awkward but also sincere, and worried. It was such a rare experience to find an adult genuinely worried about Harry’s welfare, and _especially_ Harry’s, in the absence of any official obligation to do so. His instinct was to distrust it. But Black didn’t strike him as a liar.

“I’m sorry you had to see all that,” Black said. Harry sneaked a sideways peek. His hands were shaking.

“It was entertaining,” Theo said.

Harry kicked his ankle lightly.

“What? It _was_. I don’t like your father much, Harry.”

Black’s lips twitched. “Fair enough…”

Harry shrugged. “I’ve been fighting with James off and on for three years now, this is nothing new.”

“I still can’t believe… what he did to you,” Black whispered. “That’s not… the friend I knew. Not the man I knew.”

“Seems you weren’t the only one to misjudge him,” Theo said.

“Will he face criminal charges?” Harry asked.

Theo shook his head. “The father of the Boy Who Lived? I doubt it. Especially with Dumbledore pulling for him. Probably he’ll say he was frightened of Black or something. Which would have the double effect of making Black look like a bad candidate for guardianship.”

“We’ll need to counter that,” Harry mused, thinking about how he was going to do this.

“Harry… I know I’m… probably not your first choice to be your guardian,” Black said, swallowing hard. “Merlin knows I’m not in the best position to be looking after a child. If you want to work something else out… that’s fine. I’ll help you however you want me to.”

Harry considered what he knew of Black. “I think living with you would be Eden compared to the other homes I’ve had,” he said. “Though, we have some legal problems…”

“We’ll handle them,” Black said, with what Harry recognized as Gryffindor bullheadedness. It was oddly comforting. He’d seen the same trait in Hermione, and Neville sometimes. A principle had been offended, and Black was going to set it right.

“Thank you,” Theo said. “For last night.”

“Any friend of Harry’s is all right by me,” Black said. His voice was still raspy and hoarse. “I won’t try to control your friends, Harry. If… we work out the guardianship thing. My parents did it to my brother and me—James would clearly love to do it to you.”

Harry very, very cautiously reached out. He was not at all sure that this was what you did in these kinds of circumstances. But it would have to work because he was _not_ going to resort to hugging. He laid his hand on Black’s shoulder.

Black looked at Harry’s hand, and then returned the gesture. It was an odd sort of imitation hug. Harry could work with it.

“We can sort out the details later,” Black said. “I need… sleep.”

He did indeed look very shaky. Theo sat with Harry and they both waited until Black appeared sound asleep, chest rising and falling in regular, slow breaths.

“He seems all right,” Theo said quietly.

Harry hummed. “It won’t be easy…”

“If nothing else, he seems like he knows some interesting magic,” Theo said, with a ghost of the vicious smile Harry had seen him wear before.

“True. Speaking of which, what was that spell you used on Lupin?”

 _“Adfero caecus_.” Theo demonstrated the wand movement with a finger. Harry felt the words echoing with malevolent magic. He wanted to try the spell himself. “Mostly irreversible. A few months’ intensive care at St. Mungo’s can help repair some of the damage. Sometimes.”

Harry whistled. That really was a nasty spell. “Where’d you learn that one?”

“Where do you think?” Theo said. “Dear old Dad.”

“Your father seems…” Harry considered how to put this. “Dangerous.”

“He is that,” Theo said, smirking. “Not to me, don’t worry—but to people who cross him?” He mimed blasting someone with a wand.

Harry nodded. That fit the impression he’d gotten.

There was a pause. “He’s much… he’s more of a father when we’re at home,” Theo added quietly.

“I figured,” Harry said. Lord Nott had been surprisingly cold and reserved for a father whose son had just come close to being eaten by a werewolf and then kissed by a dementor in the company of a convicted murderer.

“On the bright side,” Theo said, “if Black ends up your guardian, you might actually be able to come over to my house for a bit. You are going to love our library.”

Harry grinned at the thought. “Sounds fantastic.”

They sat in silence for a bit, slowly eating chocolate and lost in thought. Harry was still struggling to process everything that had just happened.

Behind him, someone stirred.

Theo and Harry turned around. Neville was sitting up, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “Theo? Harry? Is that Black? What’s… going on?” He paused. “What day is it?”

Theo and Harry looked at each other.

“You explain,” Theo said. “It’s your family drama.”

“I hate you,” Harry said without feeling, and clambered over to Neville’s bed to share the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 3/2/18: Shout out to Lesbiannaisanna for aNOTHER gorgeous fic of this fic! link's right here. it's amazing. she's amazing. check it out plz.


	12. (i'm feeling too lazy to chapter title, here's the end)

Harry was up early the next morning, dressed and pacing, because Madam Pomfrey insisted that he stay until that evening and he was going stir crazy. It didn’t help that Black had been taken to St. Mungo’s to begin repairing the damage done to his body and mind by twelve years in one of the worst hellholes wizards had ever been able to create, and Harry didn’t know how long it would be until he heard the verdict.

“Harry,” Theo said, taking another handful of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans that Hermione had sent the previous day. “Sit down. You’re driving me mad.”

“I’m _going_ mad,” Harry said.

Neville threw a bean at his head.

Harry caught it and threw it back.

“No throwing food,” Madam Pomfrey scolded as she walked by.

Harry lowered his head ashamedly. “Sorry, Madam Pomfrey.”

“It’s all right, dear,” she said, softening, and went back to her office.

“Nice,” Theo said, grinning.

“Why thank you,” Harry said, bowing.

Someone knocked at the door.

Madam Pomfrey went over to answer it. “Yes?”

“We’re here to visit Neville and Harry and Theo,” a familiar voice said.

“Of course.” Madam Pomfrey stepped aside, holding the door open. “But you must _be quiet_. They need rest.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Blaise said, leading the way into the room. He grinned when he saw them. “Oh good, you’re up.”

“I was going to pour water on you if not,” Daphne said.

Madam Pomfrey glared at her.

“She was joking,” Justin assured the nurse.

Madam Pomfrey sniffed. “Very well. I shall be in my office.”

Blaise, Daphne, Pansy, Hermione, and Justin clustered around their three beds. “How are you feeling?” Hermione said.

“Fine,” Harry said. “I want out of here.”

Neville carefully unwrapped a Chocolate Frog card. “Dumbledore,” he complained, glaring at the card. “Figures.”

Harry looked at Hermione. “You caught them up on what happened?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I can’t believe _Sirius Black_ is innocent,” Blaise said, draping himself over Theo’s bed.

“Lupin resigned,” Pansy said sweetly, helping herself to some of Neville’s sweets.

Harry sat down on his bed. “Good.”

“Because most of the parents deluged Dumbledore with letters complaining about a werewolf teaching their children,” Daphne added.

“What?” Theo sat up straight. “Who told them?”

“One of the Hufflepuffs overheard Dumbledore talking to Lupin and your father yesterday morning when they brought him in,” Pansy said. “It was all over the school by dinnertime. Letters came in at breakfast this morning. They’ll be announcing his resignation over dinner.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “How d’you know about it then?”

She smiled innocently. “People like me.”

“Merlin knows why,” Theo said.

“It probably helps that I haven’t got a face like yours,” she said.

Harry ignored their bickering. “Do people know about Black yet? Has there been anything about Pettigrew’s trial?”

“Nothing so far,” Blaise said. “Hermione says he seemed more or less sane?”

“More or less,” Neville said.

Theo shrugged. “Definitely some loose ends upstairs, but fewer than you’d think. He said it was a combination of Occlumency and… you know, the fact that he’s an illegal Animagus.”

“I expect that will come out in Pettigrew’s trial,” Hermione said.

Harry laughed suddenly. “If they call Black on it, they’ll have to go after my dad, as well. Honestly, that should protect him. Speaking of which, I need a good lawyer.”

“My father owns a firm,” Daphne said. “One of the best.”

“I thought your family owns a clothing business,” Neville said.

Daphne shrugged. “That’s my mother’s domain. Equally as profitable as my father’s practice, I can assure you.”

Harry pointed at her. “Perfect. Would you mind writing him and telling him I’d like to become a client?”

“Not at all. I’m sure he’ll contact you within a few days.”

That was excellent news. Harry needed to move quickly on this one. Some things had to happen within the next week before they were sent home. He really needed to avoid running away. It would look terrible and hurt his chances of gaining sympathy from whoever judged the case.

“Pansy,” he said. Along those lines—it would be best to get the news out quickly about Black’s innocence. The Ministry would be more likely to transfer Harry to Black’s care if public opinion was on Black’s side. “I suspect the staff are trying to cover this all up… be a shame, really, if their efforts went to waste, and people found out that Albus Dumbledore and James Potter conspired to put an innocent man in Azkaban for twelve years because they were trying to cover up their own mistakes...”

“And, of course, how Black risked life and limb to return and save Harry and Jules from the lurking threat of the _true_ traitor, Peter Pettigrew,” Blaise added, smirking.

Hermione nodded, eyes narrowed.

“The rumor mill here is insane,” Justin said, catching on. “It might even get around all the Houses by dinner.”

“Just in time for some evening owl post,” Theo finished.

Pansy’s smile was slow and more than a little terrifying. “That _would_ be ever such a shame.”

Harry couldn’t wait for breakfast the next morning.

 

Pomfrey finally released Harry and Theo right before dinner. They scrambled into clean sets of robes, Harry tried to get his hair into some sort of order, and they went down to the Great Hall.

Whispers started as soon as Harry walked in. He ignored them, kept his head high, and went to his place at the Slytherin table between Blaise and Daphne without giving any indication that he noticed anything strange.

“What happened?” Malfoy said instantly. “Is it true Black’s innocent and you and Snape were there to prove it?”

“I can’t believe we had a _werewolf_ teaching us all year,” Anita Strickland said shrilly. “I have no idea what the headmaster was thinking—”

“Clearly, he wasn’t,” Noah Bole said.

Harry heaved a sigh and told Malfoy, Bulstrode, the beefcakes, and the fourth years a heavily abbreviated version of the story. The second years were listening in as well, and probably any of the Ravenclaws within earshot, so he was careful about every word he spoke. It only took a few minutes.

“I never would’ve dreamed…” Bole said. “Black, innocent.”

“It’s insane,” Strickland agreed.

The conversation couldn’t be expected to focus on anything other than Black and Pettigrew and conspiracies, so Harry did his best to tune it all out and focus on his food.

 

As he’d expected, breakfast the next morning was a chaotic disaster. _Why_ it was a chaotic disaster turned out slightly differently.

On the one hand, a wave of letters poured into the Great Hall from parents expressing disbelief about Black’s innocence. On the other, this news was accompanied by a rumor that Pettigrew had escaped.

Harry first heard it whispered among the Ravenclaws, and then a paper airplane landed on his plate from the Slytherin upper years. He unfolded it with hands that he _would not allow to shake._

_My aunt’s in the Ministry. The rumor’s true._

_-Bletchley_

It dissolved as soon as he finished reading. Harry stared, unseeing, at his plate.

“Harry,” Theo said.

“He escaped,” Harry said numbly. Daphne cast a spell. “He—those blithering _fools!_ How could they let this _happen!”_ He itched to draw his holly wand—or better yet, the ash, it did much better with destructive curses—and shatter the table. Or a boulder. Or a few trees.

“You done?” Blaise said laconically.

Harry took a deep breath and fell back on his Occlumency until he thought he could go back to his meal. “Yeah.”

Daphne canceled what he now realized had been a silencing spell. “Thanks,” Harry said.

She nodded slightly and returned to her porridge.

“Escaped,” Harry muttered. “Merlin’s balls.”

 

With a special dispensation from the Headmaster and under the supervision of his Head of House, Harry went to Hogsmeade on Monday to meet with his lawyer. Lord Greengrass had responded promptly to Daphne’s letter and written Harry directly the same morning, assuring both of them that he would put Harry in touch with someone good.

Harry walked into the Three Broomsticks and nodded to Madam Rosmerta.

“A private room, please,” Snape said.

Rosmerta snapped her fingers and got one of the waitresses to show them to a private parlor, fairly well decorated, on the second floor. Harry pulled out a chair and sat down, working hard to conceal his nervousness. Snape sat next to him and was as impassive as ever.

“I apologize for taking up your time today, Professor,” Harry said.

“I am the head of Slytherin, Mr. Potter,” Snape said drily. “This is hardly the first time I have been called upon to accompany one of my charges to a meeting with a lawyer or member of the press.”

Harry conceded the point.

The lawyer arrived a few minutes later. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, with a smile as sharp as cut glass. “Heir Potter, I presume,” she said. “Vanessa Tate.”

He stood and shook her hand. “A pleasure, Ms. Tate.”

She took a seat across the table from him and set out a scroll. “This is the legal contract,” she explained. “Essentially, it lays out my hourly rates, the typical confidentiality arrangement, et cetera.”

“May I spend a few moments reading it over?” Harry asked.

“By all means.”

He read every line carefully, making sure there were no loopholes, but Greengrass, Tate, & Morris appeared to be dealing honestly with him.

“This all looks acceptable,” he said, passing the contract back.

“Very good. Here you are.” Tate handed him a bloodred quill of the sort used to sign legally binding contracts. Harry set it to the paper and signed his name, feeling an odd sort of pinch as the quill put a bit of his magic into the signature.

Tate signed after him. The parchment gleamed with white light for a second before fading. “A copy has been placed in our files,” she explained, and slid the contract over to Harry. “Here you are.”

Harry rolled the scroll and tucked it in his bag while Tate set out a fresh piece of parchment and a DictaQuill. “It’ll transcribe our conversation,” she explained.

Harry nodded.

“Now, I understand you’re on a schedule to return to the castle, so I’ll get straight to business,” she said briskly. “Lord Greengrass gave me some limited information from his daughter. I presume you intend to petition for a change in guardianship from your Muggle aunt to Lord Black?”

“I do,” Harry said.

She nodded. “I’ll need to ask a few questions to confirm your present situation. Firstly—the Muggles are your current guardians?”

Harry nodded.

Tate’s lip curled a bit. “Deplorable circumstance… And Remus Lupin is still your legal godfather?”

“He is,” Harry said, “but Black was my godfather first, and only replaced when he was imprisoned.”

Tate scribbled something with a normal quill to the side of the DictaQuill script. “The paperwork to register a change in godparent with the Ministry includes a rationale. No one really reads it in the Ministry, but they don’t advertise that fact. I’ll pull the records from the archive. If Lord Potter justified the switch with Black turning traitor and going to prison, it should be fairly easy to overturn in court. It’ll help that we can get Lupin declared unfit for guardianship of a minor without batting an eyelash, due to his… condition.”

Harry decided he rather liked her.

“The more difficult aspect will be getting your father declared unfit for your custody,” Tate said bluntly, meeting Harry’s eyes. “Our first step needs to be getting Black in as your godfather again. After that, you’ll need to prove firstly that the Muggles are unsuitable guardians, then the same for Lord Potter. For that, we need evidence. Pensieve memories and full-body magical scans at St. Mungo’s. I can file an Emergency Protection Order and get you remanded to someone else’s custody in the interim so you don’t have to return to the Muggles’ home. I understand you left on bad terms last year.”

“Distinctly,” Harry said. “There’s a complication.” He’d been debating whether to tell her about this for a while, and only decided to do so thanks to the confidentiality clause. She was magically bound to not say anything. “My mother sacrificed her life in an attempt to protect my brother and myself. Dumbledore managed to take the blood magic of such a sacrifice and create powerful wards bound to a blood relative—in this case, my Muggle aunt—as long as either Julian or I spends a certain amount of time living with them every year.” He hesitated. “His words were “calling it home.” I left in a dramatic manner last summer. I’m not sure what state the wards are in… but if they’re still active, Dumbledore might argue that I have to stay in their custody in order to keep it as a backup safe haven for the Boy Who Lived.”

Tate’s expression was grim. “Fascinating. Mr. Potter, if the wards remain active and the court rules against you…”

“I will run,” he said flatly. “I have contingency plans. I’m not going back there. I don’t care if the wards fail. It strikes me as unlikely that a Muggle home with blood wards is any better protection than centuries-old wards at Potter Manor or even Hogwarts if it comes to that.”

“Fair point,” Tate said, making another note. “I’ll keep that in mind, and perhaps send someone around to verify the state of the wards.”

“Perhaps I could do so,” Snape said.

Harry stared at him. “…sir?”

“An excellent plan,” Tate said, smiling like a shark. “If you could send me a written analysis?”

“Certainly.”

Harry blinked.

“Don’t gape, Potter,” Snape said. Harry resisted the urge to respond that he hadn’t been gaping. “I am willing to go to significant lengths to disrupt James Potter’s arrogant self-assurance.”

“I’ve noticed,” Harry said drily.

Was that a faint smile? Hastily wiped away, but—it was. Harry kicked his sense of triumph into a deep dark mental hole and focused back on Tate. “Once we have those results, we can move forward?”

“I’ll begin the process of restoring Black to your godfather right away,” Tate said. “If you’ll write and ask him to add me to the visitor list? As I understand it, St. Mungo’s only allows visitors approved by the patient and the mind healer to the mental ward.”

 _Good policy._ “I’ll do so right away.”

“Excellent.” Tate stood briskly, packing away her DictaQuill and notes. “Pleasure working with you, Mr. Potter.”

“You as well, Ms. Tate,” Harry said, and shook her hand again before she disappeared with as much force as she’d arrived.

Snape raised an eyebrow as he and Harry made to follow. “She likes you.”

Harry cocked his head. “Have you met?”

“We were in school together,” Snape said after a moment. It sounded as if each word were being dragged out against its will. Harry found it highly amusing that James Potter was the stick that had finally managed to get Snape over his badly concealed dislike of Harry. “She is a Slytherin graduate.”

That explained a lot.

They walked back up to the school in silence. Harry wasn’t a fool. Snape was willing to work with him to piss off James. He was still the cold, distant Potions Master who quite obviously would much rather be doing research than teaching, and did not care for children.

Harry would take what he could get.

 

“Do you really need to sneak out the _first night_ back from the hospital?” Neville said. “Pomfrey said you need rest!”

“I also want my property back,” Harry said grimly. “I can rest for a whole week after this.”

Neville shook his head. “And what do you need me for?”

“Gryffindor already won the Cup,” Harry said. It had been extremely irritating to see _yet another year_ of favoritism in action. “So points aren’t a problem. Frankly, they’re going to go easier on a Gryffindor out of bed than a Slytherin if one of us gets caught.”

“Which we already explained,” Theo said. “After dinner, when you agreed to this.”

“I know,” Neville said, squinting nervously down a dark corridor as they passed it. “I still don’t like it.”

“Eriss is scouting,” Harry said. “Our chances of getting caught are really very low.”

“I’d be more comforted if you said they were zero.”

Harry grinned at Neville. “Now, would you want me to lie to you, Nev?”

Neville made a face at him. “You know what I meant.”

Snickering, Harry kept moving through the quiet, dark halls.

All three boys were wearing silenced shoes, and Eriss, Mariko, and another snake named Izzi, a recent arrival, were scouting ahead and behind. Harry was not unduly worried. The castle was sleeping off the end-of-term weekend celebrations.

Although he wouldn’t have said no to Jules’ Invisibility Cloak if it were offered him.

They paused outside the door they needed. “It’s locked,” Neville said.

“Not surprising,” Harry said, and pulled his ash wand. It liked these sorts of sneaking-around spells better than the holly did, and had the added benefit of being unknown to the castle, so if anyone checked his wand with _priori incantatem_ they wouldn’t find anything. Not that he’d told Theo or Neville any of this. They still didn’t know about his second wand and Harry intended to keep it that way for a while.

He started in on the spells he’d spent an hour studying. The second one got the door open.

“That wasn’t legal,” Neville said. “At all. I saw it in that book you loaned me.”

“Nope,” Theo agreed, leaning unconcernedly on the wall as Harry got the door open with a simple _aperiportus_ in case there was some kind of booby trap.

Nothing.

“Let’s do this,” he said.

Neville waited just inside the door, keeping it ajar with a bit of wood transfigured from a quill in case there were time-delay relocking enchantments on it. Harry and Theo crept through empty desks. They’d spent hours in this classroom over the course of their three years at Hogwarts, but at night, alone, it became dark and eerie and unfamiliar.

Theo was first up the stairs at the back of the room. Harry followed, wand held tightly.

“What if he’s already packed it up?” Theo said, as Harry raised his wand and pointed it at the door.

Harry raised an eyebrow at his friend. “Bit late for worrying about that, isn’t it?” He’d already considered this possibility, and decided that they could work around it.

Theo shrugged.

Harry started casting. The door resisted the first two spells he used.

 _“_ Third try,” Harry said. “Hopefully this works, it’s the most powerful one I know and can cast… _ishbin domitor fane arcere_ ,” he incanted, leveling his wand at the door.

There was a cracking noise, and the door flew open, slamming into the inner wall with a _bang_.

“All good?” Neville called softly.

“Yeah, sorry,” Theo answered.

Harry led the way into Professor Lupin’s office.

 _“Harry,”_ Eriss said.

 _“Lumos,”_ Harry cast, and switched to Parseltongue. _“Where are you—ah, got you. Find anything interesting?”_

 _“Lots of magic smells,”_ Eriss said. “ _I can’t smell the paper alone, there are too many other enchanted things.”_

 _“Ah, well, it was worth a shot,”_ Harry said, holding out his arm. She climbed up and draped herself across his shoulders, tail wound around his left arm and head by his right ear, in her preferred position.

“She didn’t get it?” Theo said.

Harry shook his head. “One more shot… _Accio Marauder’s Map.”_

Nothing happened.

Theo tried, since he was better with the Summoning Charm. Nothing. “He must’ve spelled the room so Summoners don’t work,” Theo said. “Father does the same thing in his study.”

“Not unreasonable,” Harry said. “You take the desk, I’ll get the shelves?”

“Fair enough.”

After ten minutes of searching, Neville got bored by the door and came up to help. Another thirty by and left them staring empty-handed at the two half-packed trunks standing under the window.

“Damn,” Theo said.

“At least he left them open,” Harry said.

They began sorting through the trunks layer by layer. It was slow going, because Theo sat down to draw a top-down view of where everything was while Neville and Harry carefully removed items one at a time and sorted through them. Harry went through the pockets of every cloak, pair of trousers, vest, or jacket Lupin owned; Neville flipped through the pages of every book they came across, and Harry or Theo cast powerful Revealing Charms on everything that came out of the trunk.

“Harry, hold up,” Theo said suddenly.

Harry glanced over from examining an odd pamphlet written entirely in what looked like a variant on Egyptian hieroglyphs to find Theo holding a book. One of its pages held a soft, fading glow.

“ _Specialis revelio,”_ Harry repeated.

The same glow appeared on the page, and slowly faded again.

Harry looked at them. “We’re short on time. Try to spell it out, or just take the book?”

“You guys work on repacking the other trunk,” Theo said, turning to the desk with an intense expression. “I”ll see if I can’t get this thing back…”

Harry and Neville used Theo’s diagrams and got to work putting things back in the trunk that hadn’t held the spelled book, painstakingly setting everything back in its place.

“Got it!” Theo crowed.

Harry flipped around immediately. “ _Yes_ —let me check—I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” he said, prodding the Map with his wand.

It swirled to life, faithful and active as alwasys, and he grinned before wiping it and shoving it in his pocket. “Great work, Theo.”

“I know,” Theo agreed, smirking, and helped them finish repacking the trunks.

Harry was the last one out of the office. He looked around to check that everything was back as it should be and left the room. Let Lupin think he’d just forgotten to lock his office. None of the boys knew what spell he’d used to hold it shut, or if there was a password, so they couldn’t very well repair the damage.

Eriss vanished into the hallway and returned with an all clear that Harry verified with the Map. They slipped out and jogged back to the Great Hall. Harry kept his wand lit and watched the Map as they went; there was Filch on the fourth floor, but going away from the Grand Staircase; two prefects patrolling on the second, Harry and Theo would have to dodge them on their way down… maybe the passage behind the Lancelot tapestry; they could take that down to the first floor and then the tunnel under the staircase to near the Potions classroom…

“Bye, guys,” Neville whispered, grinning at them. “See you tomorrow!”

“Bye, Nev,” Theo said, and Harry grinned back at his friend, showing Neville the Map one more time. The Gryffindor studied it for a few seconds before he nodded and took off up the stairs.

Harry and Theo made it back to Slytherin without incident; the Map showed Neville got to his common room too. Harry made sure to stow the Map and his ash wand securely in the secret compartment of his trunk before he fell into bed.

 

“Jules.”

Harry’s twin turned around, looking as always like Harry’s slightly distorted reflection. “Harry,” he said, glancing sideways at Ronald. “Er. Hi.”

“Can we talk?” Harry said, fighting the urge to shove his hands in his pockets or pull his wand out and spin it around his fingers. The first would betray his nervousness, and the second would make Jules think Harry was about to hex him.

Jules shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

No one moved.

Harry raised an eyebrow at Ronald.

“Anything you have to say you can say to both of us,” Jules said, jutting out his chin.

Oh, fantastic, he was already on the defensive. Just how Harry wanted to kick this off. He held in a sigh. “I just wanted to ask how you’re doing.”

“How _I’m_ —that makes no sense,” Jules said. “You’re the one that got out of the hospital wing just yesterday evening.”

“Yeah, but—” Harry wondered why trying to have a sincere conversation with his brother tripped up his words when he’d faced down a werewolf and a man he’d thought was a convicted murderer without stuttering once. He settled on, “Look, I know we’ve had our differences. But you’re still my brother, and—I know you’re—close with James and Dumbledore and—it can’t be easy to hear…” _That your father and role model put an innocent man in prison for twelve years._

Jules frowned.

“What do you care whether it’s easy for him to hear?” Ronald said.

“Like I said,” Harry said. “I’m his brother.”

This entire conversation was so stilted and awkward. Harry really just wanted to leave. Why had he thought this was a good idea?

Oh, right, because he’d hoped that a ding in James’ perfect image might allow Harry to partially bridge the gap between himself and his brother. Because Harry didn’t want to be completely alienated from the only blood kin he had left.

He ignored Ronald and focused on Jules. Watched the play of emotions across his brother’s face—wariness, uncertainty, sadness, resolution—and hoped…

“They did what they thought was necessary,” Jules said.

And just like that, Harry’s hope crumbled into ashes. “What?”

“I mean…” Jules shifted uncomfortably, as if part of him knew how stupid the lies he was parroting sounded. “From the sound of it… Black was all wild and—and using Dark magic in the war… Not acting like someone from the Light, okay? I can see why they’d have thought it was him—and why they’d have thought he was dangerous enough to be locked up… Dad’s told me the stories, all right? Before this year. It’s not my fault you were a—were a prat and never stuck around long enough to hear them.”

“Oh, so now you’re blaming _me_ for the fact that our father is such a selfish narrow-minded egotistical jerk that he hasn’t welcomed me home in three years?” Harry rolled his eyes. “That makes _so_ much sense.”

“Come off it,” Ronald said angrily, “it’s obvious why he didn’t want you home, isn’t it, you’re a right prat—”

“Be quiet, Ronald, I’m talking to my brother, not you,” Harry said lazily. “Jules, honestly? You’re going to defend them for throwing an _innocent_ wizard _into Azkaban_ for twelve years?”

Jules threw up his hands. “They had reasons! Good reasons! That doesn’t make it _right_ —but I _understand_ —and I don’t blame them!”

“Too bad the rest of wizarding Britain will.”

“No,” Jules said stubbornly. “They’ll get off. People will understand. You’ll see.”

Harry watched him for a long second. Jules shifted a bit, clearly uncomfortable beneath Harry’s even, unemotional stare. He was looking for… any sign that he could convince his brother. Any sign that this was salvageable.

He found none.

“Right,” Harry said, “good talk. Thanks for clearing up your bigotry, brother dear.”

Three steps away from them, he heard _“Furunculus!”_

It was too late to dodge. Harry staggered as the jinx hit him in the back, and then hissed in pain as hot, stabbing boils erupted over his lower back, spreading up his spine and shoulders, down the backs of his legs—

He whipped around, wand already moving. _“Amplius auri! Tarantallegra! Gardus—invesicae—vexo!”_

The string of spells snapped off one by one as he shifted and dodged. Jules staggered back, hands clapped to his ears and wand forgotten under an onslaught of sudden overwhelming sound information he had no practice coping with. The Dancing Curse hit his stomach and put him out of commission. Harry blocked one of Ronald’s hexes, nailed him with an Incontinence Jinx and then a Hurling Hex that sent him flying through the air to land on his back a meter away, dark stains already spreading over his trousers.

Breathing hard, Harry stared at them. Ronald, moaning on the ground. Jules, lying there with his legs thrashing uncontrollably and his hands still clamped to his ears.

He turned his wand on himself, cast the Furunculus counterjinx and a basic healing charm to get rid of the boils, and walked away.

 

Snape delivered an impressive lecture on sportsmanship and responsible ways to handle arguments with other students, assigned three feet of parchment on responsible uses of magic as a summer assignment, and gave Harry the distinct impression that he wasn’t actually angry. Harry listened expressionlessly and left without speaking a word.

 

_Sirius,_

_I hope St. Mungo’s is treating you well. I’ve heard mixed things about the food—Pansy tells me her uncle is a mind healer there; he said he’d make sure you got the better meal options. How is your treatment coming? Do you know when you’ll be released? I’d like to come visit once term is over._

_Earlier this week, I met with a lawyer. Vanessa Tate, Slytherin, of Greengrass, Tate, & Morris. Snape knew her from his time in Hogwarts; maybe you remember her? She seems like quite a force of nature. I don’t envy James. We talked about the process of reinstating you as my godfather and then getting a court to transfer me to your custody. She wants to come by and speak with you about the legal things; will you add her to the approved visitors’ list? _

_Oh, and Ms. Tate filed an EPO with the Ministry. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley agreed to take custody of me until we get this sorted out, since the EPO contested the Dursleys, James’, or Lupin’s right to be my guardian. The Weasleys wouldn’t have been my first choice, but Tate said I needed someone James couldn’t argue with. He won’t. He likes them too much. I should only be there for a few weeks at most. That only worked because Snape went by the Dursleys’ house and confirmed that my dramatic exit last year destroyed the blood wards. Jules could’ve salvaged it, but if Dumbledore thinks the Boy Who Lived would tolerate living like a Muggle for three weeks, he’s a lot dumber than I thought._

_I can’t thank you enough for being willing to take me in. After what you’ve been through, no one would blame you for just holing up somewhere to recover. It means a lot to me._

_In other news, Dumbledore is set to go on trial for gross misconduct and abuse of authority in mid-July. Tate things your testimony can get him removed from the Wizengamot permanently if you’re recovered enough to be involved. If not, don’t worry—the odds are still good._

_Let me know if there’s anything you need._

_-Harry_

 

“Potter, the headmaster wants to see you.”

Harry dragged his attention out of his book and blinked at Ava Pucey. “Sorry, what?”

“The headmaster,” she repeated, irritated. “He said to tell you ‘lemon drop’ and also that he wants you as soon as possible.”

 _Dammit._ “Thanks,” Harry said, closing his book.

 _“The nasty old man?”_ Eriss said. _“What does he want?”_

 _“Probably to scold me for the wards,”_ Harry muttered, turning toward the wall as he packed his things up so no one would see him talking to himself. So much for a quiet afternoon in the common room. “ _You’ll have to stay here. I don’t trust Notice-Me-Not charms around him.”_

_“I can sneak in and bite his ankles.”_

Harry smirked and scratched under Eriss’ chin. _“Maybe someday. You do have a nasty bite.”_

 _“I am sorry,”_ Eriss said, hanging her head. _“I never meant to hurt you…”_

 _“No, stop that.”_ Harry ran his hand down her back. She’d grown to just over two feet long. _“You saved my life. And Theo’s, and Black’s. You did what you had to.”_

 _“I’m not supposed to hurt you at all,”_ Eriss said grumpily. _“It was hard to do.”_

Interesting. Harry should probably look more into the bond between a familiar and a wizard. He’d thought it was just a formality, but Alekta was nowhere near Eriss’ level. Harry was fond of his falcon, and she of him. It just wasn’t the same. There seemed to be some kind of bond between him and Eriss that involved magic and connection he hadn’t noticed forming for a while. _“I’m still glad you did. But you do have to stay here. And no biting the Headmaster for a while.”_

Grumbling, Eriss agreed, and slipped off into the corner of the common room while Harry collected his books. He stopped by his room to hide a few of questionable content in his trunk and replaced them with completely boring and innocuous Ministry-approved charms and history texts, and set off for the headmaster’s office.

“Lemon drop,” he told the gargoyles. They leaped aside, and Harry stepped onto the spiral staircase.

“Enter,” called the familiar voice.

Harry stepped inside, determinedly keeping his features set in polite openness. “You wished to see me, sir?”

“Indeed I did,” Dumbledore said, twinkling at him. “Take a seat, dear boy, take a seat… Lemon drop?”

“No, thank you, sir,” Harry said, sitting straight-backed in one of the chairs in front of the headmaster’s desk. It wasn’t one he’d seen before, and seemed designed to be uncomfortable. Typical.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers under his chin. “I expect Severus has informed you that the blood wards around your home have failed?”

“He did, sir,” Harry said. _Take that, you manipulative bastard._

“I’m sure I do not need to tell you that I am rather disappointed in you, Harry. I explained the importance of maintaining those wards.”

“You did, sir,” Harry said meekly.

He said nothing else, despite the headmaster’s pointed silence, which dragged on for almost a full minute before he sighed and sat back in his chair. “Some of the blame is mine, I must admit… I do apologize, dear boy, for not taking precautions last summer…”

Dumbledore paused again. Harry rather thought he was waiting for some kind of absolution. A _no problem_ or _I’m sorry_ or _it’s not your fault_.

If so, he’d be waiting a long time.

Dumbledore studied Harry for several more minutes. There was something… pensive, almost _cautious_ , in his expression, if you looked closely. Harry wondered why. He was a thirteen-year-old. Dumbledore had no reason to be cautious of him.

“Have you any plans for this summer?” Dumbledore said finally. “Regarding your guardianship—I understand you and James are unfortunately not on the best of terms…”

“I have some plans,” Harry said. “Luckily for me, none of them involve going back to an abusive home.”

The headmaster looked at him sternly over his glasses. “Harry, really, it does you no good to exaggerate your experiences in this manner.”

“It’s Mr. Potter, Headmaster,” Harry said, and he heard a bit of stiffness creep into his tone, fought it back with an effort.

“Pardon my lapse.” Dumbledore did not look apologetic. “You remind me so of your brother sometimes.”

 _How bizarre_ , Harry thought. _It’s not like we’re twins or anything._

“If you require any assistance with any legal things, you have only to ask,” Dumbledore said, the twinkle returning full force alongside a genial smile. Harry trusted neither. “I am, of course, available as a resource for all my students.”

“Of course, sir,” Harry said. “It means a lot to me.” He tried on a smile. His jaw ached and he wanted to grind his teeth together, but he managed to hold a veneer of politeness and gratitude and sincerity on his face for the two minutes it took to get safely out of that office and out of sight.

Then he stopped trying, and started hurling curses at the wall.

 

_Harry,_

_The hospital is definitely a nice change! I’ve not met a Healer Parkinson but the food has been excellent, so if I do I’ll be sure to thank him. They tell me I’ll be released the same day the Hogwarts term ends. I can’t take you back to my family home yet, but I’ll come say hello at the station before you go with the Weasleys._

_I only vaguely remember Molly and Arthur from the war. Wasn’t easy to get news, as you can probably guess. The picture in the Prophet was the first I’d heard of them since. What are their children like? Are you on good terms with the parents? They’ll treat you well? I get the impression that they’re in Dumbledore’s camp._

_Vanessa Tate. That is a name I haven’t heard in a while. I remember her pretty vividly, as it happens. She was two years above me. I asked her on a date once. She laughed and then hexed me blond. I think I had a crush on her for a year after that incident. You could do worse as a lawyer. (I assume by “force of nature” you mean “bloody terrifying.”) She stopped by again yesterday and told me they’re in the final stages of nullifying the change of godparent. It’s apparently unprecedented and not quite legal, but Fudge is out for blood and apparently it wasn’t hard to convince whoever’s been put in as acting Chief Warlock. Didn’t recognize the name._

_Good to hear the wards came down. You’ll have to tell me about your exit in more detail later if it was dramatic enough to shatter blood wards that strong!_

_I’m going to testify at Dumbledore’s trial if I have to show up in a wheelchair. Anyone who knows me at all would laugh at the idea of Sirius Black willingly appearing in public in a wheelchair. I’m cringing just thinking about it. But it’s worth it to see that smug bastard get taken down a few pegs. Not to mention—_

_Anyway. This obviously relies on the Healers declaring me mentally stable enough to participate, and enough for my testimony to mean anything. I’m pretty sure they will. Just between us, I’m faking some of it, but it’ll come back in time._

_Don’t ever thank me, Harry. Looking after you was supposed to be my job if James couldn’t, and I failed spectacularly. I know it wasn’t my fault I wasn’t there for you, but the fact remains that I wasn’t. I should be thanking you for giving me a chance to make it up to you, and I’m happy to do whatever needs to be done to get you out of that house, including posing as a rabid Potter fan and kidnapping you. I don’t know if James or Remus mentioned this, but my mum—was not pleasant. I’ll go back to Azkaban before I let you go back to that house. Or to James’, after what I saw in Hogwarts._

_Looking forward to seeing you!_

_-Sirius_

 

Harry read the letter for what must have been the hundredth time. The parchment was soft and creased from being folded and unfolded so many times, and carried about in his pocket.

“We’re almost to the station,” Hermione said, peering out the window. “I’d better go change out of my robes…”

“Me, too,” Justin said, standing with her.

Neville sighed unhappily. “I’d best go collect my trunk.”

Harry’s friends left one by one, until it was only the Slytherins remaining in the compartment.

“Who’s going to the trial?” Blaise said. “They’re opening it to public viewing…”

He didn’t have to specify which trial. Albus Dumbledore up on _any_ charges was cause for endless gossip, especially in light of Sirius Black’s sudden pardon and the announcement of Peter Pettigrew’s guilt. The Ministry’s image had taken a hit for his escape in the week since the truth came out and Fudge was desperate to be seen doing something productive. He’d latched onto Dumbledore as a way to do this.

“Definitely me,” Pansy said.

“I don’t know if Dad will let me go,” Theo said, frowning. “He says the public section is a madhouse and he doesn’t trust people to leave the Notts alone.”

“Has he got a Pensieve?” Blaise said. “We can send you a copy of the memories.”

Theo’s eyes lit up. “Please do.”

Harry read the letter again.

“Harry,” Blaise said. “You doing all right?”

Pansy nudged Harry’s ankle with her foot. “We know you didn’t want things to end like this.”

“What,” Harry said, “with details about my childhood plastered on the first page of the Prophet for all of wizarding Britain to read?”

Pansy winced a bit. “Yes, that.”

Harry closed his eyes for a second. He hadn’t liked sending Pensieve memories of the Dursleys to Tate, or written testimonies, or a diagnostic report done in the hospital wing by a Healer who flooed in from St. Mungo’s. He _really_ hadn’t liked those things being written about when a Daily Prophet reporter sat in on the hearing that he had not been allowed to attend.

“I can deal with it,” he said, trying the words on to see if they were true. “The public sympathy is good—it’ll help in Dumbledore’s trial.”

“Has Jules made any kind of public appearance about all this?” Blaise said.

Harry shook his head. “He shows up at book signings and parties and store openings and other public relations opportunities in the summers but—well, no one’s going to take the word of a ten or eleven-year-old _all_ that seriously about politics.”

“He’s getting to an age where his opinions will carry some weight,” Pansy warned. “Still pretty young, because of the whole Boy Who Lived thing—but you might want to be careful of that.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. It would be an uncharacteristically clever move for Jules and James to do an interview or something in the Prophet, but then again Dumbledore was a highly dangerous adversary and would definitely think of something like that.

Theo caught Harry’s eye as they were getting up to leave the compartment. Harry pretended to be tying his shoe and lingered so they were the last two.

“Emergency Portkey,” Theo said shortly, handing Harry a plain silver ring. Harry weighed it in his hand as Theo explained, “Say _needing out now_ and you and anything you’re holding, including Eriss, but no one else touching you, will be transported to Nott Manor.”

Harry slid the ring onto his right index finger. It glowed for a second and then shrank to fit him. “…thanks.”

Theo nodded, grabbed his trunk, and took off after their friends. The whole thing had taken barely ten seconds.

Harry tapped his trunk to shrink it, tucked it into his pack with Eriss and a few books, and joined them.

They’d all donned their reserved, self-contained manners as soon as they left the compartment; none of them was willing to reveal too much in such a public setting. Harry waved at Hermione and Justin, who were both pushing their trolleys towards the barrier; they waved back and then disappeared back into the Muggle world. There was Neville, hugging his gran; she smiled at him and Neville smiled back.

And Jules, hugging James, chattering excitedly.

Harry kept his frown off his face.

Of course, they had to be standing next to the Weasleys. But on the other hand, Black was there too—standing stiffly on the other side of the jostling ginger Weasley clan from the Potters.

Harry murmured quick goodbyes to his friends—they’d said their real farewells on the train—and headed decisively for Black.

The man looked better already—still underweight, skin still a bit sallow, but it wasn’t quite so yellowish gray, and his eyes weren’t as sunken. His hair was washed and stylishly cut, and his robes were clean and of good quality. Harry smirked for a moment—seemed Black hadn’t lost the vanity and appreciation for the finger things money could buy that his family had instilled in him.

“Hello, godfather,” he said with a slight smile.

Black jumped and turned to him—clearly he hadn’t noticed Harry approach. “Harry! Hello, godson,” he said, grinning back. It was a bit stiff, a bit nervous, but—sincere.

Harry felt the letter in his pocket. His godfather (Tate had sent the news only two days ago; it still didn’t feel real) cared. He had to keep reminding himself of that. For the first time in Harry’s life he had an adult who so far hadn’t done anything to indicate his concern for Harry was anything but genuine.

It might still turn out to be a lie. He’d be on his guard for a while. But… Harry smiled wider, and even let his godfather pull him in for a hug.

He could try.

Harry still hated hugs. His body went rigid and a large part of his brain was screaming about being trapped, memories that made him shudder at physical contact pressed against the lids he kept on them, but he could make himself do this for his godfather’s sake. Harry lifted his arms and did his best to approximate a return of the gesture.

“Not a hugger?” Black said shrewdly.

Harry considered how to respond to this. “Not much for people touching me in general, really.”

By the way Black’s mouth tightened, he could guess why. Harry wished he could copy Black’s understanding onto Jules and Dumbledore and make all of their lives a lot easier. “Noted,” Black said.

“Harry, dear,” Molly Weasley said, joining their conversation. She smiled tightly at both of them. Harry felt a little prick of sadness—was he starting to lose Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, too? “We really must be off—the chickens need feeding and all—”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Weasley,” he said, smiling apologetically. “Sorry to hold you up…”

He told himself that it didn’t matter he was letting the word _sorry_ cross his lips. It wasn’t sincere. It didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t weak.

“Mr. Black,” Molly said, daring to meet Black’s eyes. Harry noticed Ginny wince just slightly as her mother left off the _Lord_. “Arthur and I were—pleased—that you’ve found justice.”

“As am I,” Black said with a brittle smile. Harry imagined he was remembering how people like the Weasleys had fought with him and then never seemed to wonder how odd it was that Sirius Black betrayed his best friend and brother—that none of them noticed the frankly rather glaring inconsistencies to Dumbledore’s story.

Mr. Weasley coughed. He was stepping up to flank his wife; Ginny was stuck between them with Molly hanging onto her shoulder with what looked like an iron grip. The twins sloped up next to their dad and shot Harry identical smirks of greeting. Ron had retreated to hover with Jules and James, all three of whom were shooting badly disguised disapproving glare at the Weasley-Potter-Black standoff.

“It was something of a shock when young Harry brought some problems in the narrative to my attention last fall,” Mr. Weasley said, twisting a handkerchief around his fingers nervously. “I don’t think I made much in the way of progress, really, but—well. Someone was fishy and I’m glad it got sorted out.”

“We’ll take good care of Harry,” Molly added, with an implied _if you even care_ lurking in her tone.

Unlike Harry’s Slytherin friends, when Black grimaced, everyone with half-decent vision could see it. “I appreciate your care for my godson’s welfare,” he said. “I was—rather hoping you would grant him permission to visit me in Diagon Alley.”

Well, that was unexpected, but sparked a jolt of happiness. At least Slytherin taught improvisation, adaptation, along with cunning. Harry made sure that his expression turned painfully, cautiously hopeful, channeling the poor lost abused child, estranged from his only living parent, _starved_ for love and adult affection…

“Oh, all right,” Molly said, a bit flustered. “I don’t see why not…”

“Maybe because he’s dangerous and shouldn’t be trusted around children?” James snarled, finally injecting himself.

Black opened his mouth, but Harry trod on his godfather’s foot and smiled a bit maliciously at his father. “Well, then it’s a good thing you’re not my guardian, isn’t it?” _And never will be if I get my way._ James had not been happy about the Ministry meddling with who was Harry’s godfather. He’d actually sent a Howler. Harry cast a sixth-year stasis charm on it and let it shriek itself out in the safety of the Chamber. Lots of invectives and dire warnings about “going Dark.” Harry hadn’t deigned to send a reply.

James’ face twisted with anger, but at a sharp word from Arthur, he stormed away, Jules in his wake and without a word of goodbye.

“Sorry about that,” Black said to the Weasleys. He didn’t actually sound very sorry. “He, er, hasn’t taken it well…”

“I should bloody well think not,” George said.

“Conspired with Dumbledore to—” Fred added, but their mother intervened.

“Fred! George! I won’t year any more out of you!”

Both the twins shut up, glowering a bit.

Ginny’s expression was pained.

Harry eyed them and wondered whether these fissures in the Weasley family were going to keep spreading. He rather hoped so. It was interesting to watch.

“See you soon,” Black said, and with one last grin, he let Harry be whisked away with the Weasleys.

Fortunately, Ronald had the good sense to walk on the other side of the group and keep his mouth shut in the presence of his parents. Harry ignored him and worked his way past the twins to the parents. “Thank you for agreeing to take me in again,” he said, voice a model of gratitude, humility, slight embarrassment. “I—it means—a lot to me.”

“Of course, Harry dear, of course,” Molly said, smiling at him, but there was something tight in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Damn.

Mr. Weasley, at least, seemed oblivious. “Yes—quite—I was wondering—I’ve managed to get hold of a, a fellytone?”

“…telephone?” Harry said, concealing his distaste.

“Yes, that! Telephone. Merlin. Only I’ve no idea how the thing works,” Mr. Weasley said excitedly. “You wouldn’t mind showing me, would you?”

 _Yes, actually, I would_. “Certainly not,” Harry said, his charming expression starting to hurt his face. “It’s always a pleasure to see a wizard taking an interest in Muggle things.”

That was all it took for Arthur to go off, chattering about his latest gadget acquisitions. Harry made interested noises at the right intervals and watched how Ron walked stiffly next to his mother and neither of them looked at Ginny, how the twins lurked behind Percy with malicious gleams in their eyes, how Percy fussed self-importantly about the school budget focusing too much on scholarships and not enough on teacher salaries while Ginny struggled to conceal her irritation. He was already writing letters in his head to his closest friends. Thinking about Tate and Dumbledore and legal jungle gyms and Wizengamot hearings.

There was a lot of work to do this summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aight so. NEWS TIME. 
> 
> Finals are approaching. I've been procrastinating. Here is the final chapter of TotT, which I hope you enjoy, and I'm sorry it's a little shorter than my usual. I just had some loose ends to tie off.
> 
> I will be going on temporary hiatus to finish book 5 before I start posting the early sections of book 4. There's only a little bit of book 5 left. BOOK FOUR WILL BEGIN NO LATER THAN MARCH 30 and most likely sooner so be on the lookout! 
> 
> I have also, in the last 4-5 days, bashed out aNOTHER rewrite of Philosopher's Stone because, again, procrastination and also stress. it is unbetaed and a very different tone from this fic, although it also looks at some tropes from this series and attempts to do them better/turn them on their head. i swore to myself and my beta as we casually kicked this idea around that i wouldn't touch it until i finished S&S. I have no self control. That fic will be another multi-book rewrite of the series but I just had a minor obsession that wouldn't go away and... yeah. If 15+ people ask for it I'll post that one over the next week or two while I finish off SoV so you all have something to read in the interim, but be aware it will languish unupdated after that probably until I'm done writing S&S book 6. (i hope. however, again, self-control is an issue.) S&S will take priority in the long run. 
> 
> the new fic idea is not WBWL, but it features a *very* Slytherin Harry and a slightly um. Darker tone than this one, heavier focus on Slytherin politics and politics in general (although the latter doesn't feature hugely into book 1), more ruthless Slytherin House, and some changes to Hogwarts (like, say, if Minnie McGee ran it for 6 or so years and actually used some fucking common sense. Exhibit A: we now have 2 teachers per subject. Which is ridiculous but less ridiculous than 1 per, and enabled me to create a fuNCTIONAL SCHEDULE OF HOGWARTS FOR ALL 7 YEARS THAT DOESN'T INVOLVE TIME TURNERS OR OVERWORKED TEACHERS. That is one change of several. Most if not all changes to hogwarts or changes/additions to the worldbuilding are there to make the world actually make sense. don't get me wrong, i love canon HP and always will, but the worldbuilding ah... leaves something to be desired i will say. 
> 
> i'm very sleep deprived so here's hoping that ramble made sense. anyway. Thank you all amazing incredible nerds for sticking around with me, an equally-if-not-worse crazy nerd, for three whole books! the reader response has been amazing and i love love love interacting with all of you in the comments! you are amazing, this fandom is amazing, hopefully book 4 will also be amazing. 
> 
> (note: when i say "slightly darker" i mean he's even more morally fucked up than this harry but there will be lines my protagonists don't cross because at a certain point i can't bring myself to write from a person's POV and think of them as the "good guy" for very long without wanting to take a shower, so.) 
> 
> AS ALWAYS: HUGE ENDLESS THANKS TO SEAR, MY WONDERFUL WONDERFUL BETA. She is brilliant, and helpful, and I'm not honestly sure how she finds time for all this, but S&S owes a LOT to her for plot coherency and lack of typos, also some of the clever plot additions and all of the titles. I do chapter titles, which is why they suck. for example: one of my original ideas for this book's title was "harry potter and the secrets of history" which yes, i'm aware, it's appalling. I love all the titles we have so far, which is all of them through book 5 nailed down and several ideas for later books being kicked around, and for all of that credit goes to her. 
> 
> One more shout out to Lesbiannaisanna, again, because she AGAIN made me do the squealy-delight thing and wrote a fic of my fic. it's called To Dissect the Core of Love, it's linked to this fic, it's brilliant, and it's part of a series with her other one, Killing Snakes. They're both amazing. i will neither confirm nor deny compliance with my AU canon (ha) but plz go read, great prose. 
> 
> -reyna

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [To Dissect the Core of Love (Oh What A Mighty Blow, The Lion Roars)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13845612) by [Lesbianna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesbianna/pseuds/Lesbianna)




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